


Pay the Piper

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Series: The Straussi Saga [3]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2019-05-16 03:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 55
Words: 306,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14803862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: As Erin continues her path to amends, she realizes that some sins are better left buried. But when things meant to stay in the past are pushed into the present, she's only left with one option. The truth will set you free, right?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Profiler's Choice Award Winner for Best Rossi/Strauss Characterization, 2013.
> 
> This work was originally published on FFNet April 2013 and completed September 2013. Since its publication, it has been read by over 45,000 readers in over a dozen countries. I am forever indebted to those first readers and reviewers who made me a better writer, and who encouraged me to embrace my own voice and storytelling gifts.

_"Nobody ever did, nor ever will, escape the consequences of his choices."_

_~Alfred A. Montapert._

* * *

Taking a deep breath to steel herself, Erin Strauss opened the door to the conference room, observing the quiet darkness for a moment before flipping the light switch. The fluorescent tubes flickered slightly before fully turning on.

They were all still there—the glossy black and white photos of the BAU Team, organized and taped to the clear dry-erase board just like any other case, just like any other victims. Her chest tightened at the sight. The photos were candids, shots of them walking and driving and talking on the phone; they were so painfully unaware of the fact that they were being watched, so absorbed with the simple details of their lives, so seemingly safe. This was the part that she hated the most—the cruel calculation of the UNSUBs, the obliviousness of the victims, the sheer injustice of it all.

She moved closer to the board, her eyes searching for something that might have been missed—a clue, a spark, an answer of any kind. She hated field work, but her mind had always been well-suited for analysis and pattern-mapping, though she'd chosen the route of bureaucracy and power. Her first job with the FBI had been as an analyst, a data consultant with a desk, and she'd actually enjoyed the challenge of stringing together seemingly unrelated bits of data and intel into a working pattern. But she'd always been an ambitious soul (that came from her father, she knew, because he'd always pushed her, had always wanted her to be the best, do the best, achieve the best) and after a few years, she'd realized that the only way to go further up was to become an agent. So she'd shipped herself off to Quantico and busted her ass in training. A few months later, she was back with a gun and a badge and a better understanding of the inner workings of the Bureau than most newly-minted agents, and it had served her well. She'd practically fallen back into her former position as an analyst, but this time, she held more value—as a female agent with two degrees and an analytical background, she'd been the poster-girl for equality in the workforce. Later on, when she went back to college and earned two more degrees in Behavioral Psychology, the higher-ups had nearly fallen over themselves in their rush to promote her. It had been a well-crafted move on her part, and though she knew the things that others whispered behind her back ( _she only got here because she's a woman, she has no real skill, no real training, sure she's got the education, but she doesn't have the experience_ ), she didn't really care. There might be some truth in it (sometimes she was certain her rise had been accelerated by the fact that the Bureau needed to look progressive and fair), but dammit, shouldn't she be credited for using that to her advantage?

Of course, none of that mattered now. Slights and grudges and old resentments meant nothing when compared to the fear creeping up the back of her throat, threatening to choke her with its intensity. Regardless of how they felt about her, these people were her responsibility, and the thought of them being hunted made her pulse quicken and her mouth dry in the most unpleasant of ways. Though the director had been quite clear in his instructions to her—that the Replicator case would be marked inactive and the team called off the search—she knew that they hadn't stopped looking, and she wouldn't either. She may not possess Dr. Reid's eidetic memory or Blake's encyclopedic knowledge or Hotch's intuitive ability to think like an UNSUB, but regardless of her current title, she was first and foremost an analyst, and gods dammit, she could use those skills to at least  _feel_  like she was helping.

Her hand moved absentmindedly to the pendant around her neck, which she toyed with as her grey eyes methodically scanned each photo. Another wave of unease rippled through her when she reached Agent Rossi's photos—Dave, her David, looking just past the camera, walking across the street, holding a to-go coffee. The last thought struck her—when on earth had he become  _hers_?

She sensed someone approaching long before she could actually hear the soft, steady pulse of footsteps on the carpet. She turned to the sound, slightly relieved to see that it was Aaron Hotchner.

"Everything OK?" His brow was arched in its usual quizzical expression, but his tone was soft, lined with the slightest hint of care. After many years of working together, he had learned how hard these cases were for her; he knew that the thought of any soul in peril upset her, and that feeling was intensified when the souls in question belonged to people whom she cared about (even if she'd rather drop dead than admit such a thing).

"I was just dropping these off," she held up a small stack of reports.

Of course, that didn't explain why she was in the conference room and not in Hotch's office, but he was gracious enough not to point that out.

"They're all smart people, Erin," his dark eyes bored into her light ones, trying to telepath the true meaning behind his words. "They know how to protect themselves."

_(It's alright; it's going to be alright. Your children are safe. I'll keep them and guard them because they're mine, too.)_

She nodded in understanding, moving back to the doorway, offering the papers to him, which he took without even inspecting.

"There haven't been any more leads?" Her voice was hopeful, but the fear was still in her eyes. She wanted to catch this creep, but at the same time, she didn't want the team getting any closer to him, for fear of what might happen when they did.

"You'd be the first to know if there were," Aaron slipped back into his usual, no-nonsense persona. His section chief now knew that it was just that—a persona—because she'd seen him laughing at JJ's wedding, dancing with his son and cracking jokes with the rest of the team. Briefly, her mind wandered to the thought that he would probably be a fun person to get drunk. Too bad she couldn't do that sort of thing anymore. As hilarious as it might be, getting Aaron Hotchner to dance on a table in a shady Mexican restaurant probably wasn't worth ten months of continuous sobriety. ( _Probably. Perhaps. Maybe. Not 100% certain. There's still a chance that it would be completely worth it._ )

"It's late," his quiet voice brought her back from her musings.

She nodded again, "I'm on my way out. I just wanted to get these to you so that you could look at them first thing tomorrow morning."

He gave a small nod, looking down at the papers for the first time. With one last look over her shoulder at those ominous boards covered in the faces of her co-workers, Erin turned the lights out again. Her eyes lingered on the space where David Rossi's face was, even though she couldn't see the photos any more. This action did not go unnoticed by Aaron, who was smart enough not to mention it aloud.

"How much do you think he knows?" Her voice was soft, her eyes still locked onto the darkness. She clarified, "About the team. Do you think…do you think he knows about their private lives, about things from their past?"

Aaron took a moment to truly contemplate the question, and he wondered why she was asking such a thing—though the way she was looking at Rossi's section, he could venture a pretty good guess. As usual, he chose the path of brutal honesty, "I don't know, but I would suspect that he does. He knows our routines, our personal habits, our favorite restaurants, what type of cars we drive….his level of planning suggests that he's been following our team for quite some time, so at this point, there's no telling what he's dug up on each of us."

Erin gave a tired sigh, the lines in her face suddenly becoming more haggard and pronounced. Her voice was incredibly small, smaller than he'd ever heard it before, "That's what I was afraid of, Agent Hotchner."


	2. Roads Less Traveled

_"Fear not for the future, weep not for the past."_

_~Percy Bysshe Shelley_

* * *

**March 2013. Vienna, Virginia. (37 miles from Quantico, 16 miles from D.C.)**

Erin entered her house, quickly punching in the alarm code on the key pad next to the door and effectively stopping the warning beeps that would turn into full-scale siren wails if not deactivated within thirty seconds. She'd installed the alarm system shortly after Paul had moved out, and for the first time in a very long time, she actually felt a pang of nostalgia for her ex-husband (her practical, well-worn, solid, dependable, comfortable husband who used to fit so perfectly into her world and her heart, who'd always been so easy to understand, so complacent and trusting and all the things she didn't deserve, not really, not ever, not now). She closed the door behind her, locking it and resetting the alarm before heading down the hallway and into the kitchen. The house was spacious, but not large, at least it hadn't seemed such when it was filled with three bouncing kids and a plethora of family pets, ranging from dogs to hamsters to cats to a bird and one ill-fated, short-lived turtle. It was painted with the Tuscan jewel-tones that one would expect to find in a ranch house on the west coast, filled with comfy over-stuffed furniture and well-chosen  _objets d'art_  that lived atop old books and among polished bronze pots of delicate orchids. It was Erin's home and yet she felt like a stranger in it at times, especially times like these, when the house was empty and the steady tick of the clock seemed to echo through every room.

Anna, her youngest and the only one still living at home, was staying with a friend for the night, so the house would belong solely to Erin until late afternoon the next day. Fifteen months ago, Erin would have relished the chance to be alone, so that she could curl up with some bourbon and simply stare at the ceiling, drinking until everything became a soft, warm haze, at which point she could stumble to the ground-floor master bedroom and fall into a deep sleep. However, the last year had wrought many changes, including the fact that Erin no longer had a drop of liquor in the house, and she'd found other ways to lull her body into sleep.

Dropping her briefcase into a kitchen chair with a heavy sigh, Erin discarded her heels, shedding her sweater as she padded into the master bedroom, which was just past the open living room, flipping on lights in her wake. The warm glow of the electric lights helped combat the dreary feel of the house, but Erin still felt an odd sadness rising in her spirit.

Sometimes being sober really sucked. Being sober meant being aware, and sometimes, Erin didn't want to be aware of her life or how it had turned into this mangled mess of lies and bad decisions held together by moments of warmth and goodness that she feared would be shattered if she tried to untangle the darker parts.

Despite her qualms, some parts were being untangled, slowly, gingerly, achingly, as she started down the path of making amends, holding her breath and hoping that she wouldn't somehow ruin the good simply by addressing the bad. Though none of it was particularly enjoyable, some reparations were easier to make than others. But of course, she was saving the hardest ones for last, praying that somehow all these previous little amends would build her up and prepare her for the bigger acts of atonement. A small voice deep inside told her that she would never be fully prepared, that those would be the ones that ripped apart the good, those would be the ones that required tearing down some of her fondest memories and her deepest relationships. It would be utter and absolute hell.

Another voice in her head reminded her that some amends could never be made. The ninth step was very clear on the fact that an amend should be made unless the act of confessing and making the amend would actually cause more damage. The things for which Erin needed to beg forgiveness were secrets, dark parts locked away from the rest of the world, and yet, she had an overwhelming need to lay them bare to the people whose lives had unwittingly been affected by these actions. She was fairly certain that these revelations would only leave pain and heartache in their wake, but Erin was self-aware enough to recognize the simple truth that those secrets had been largely responsible for the past several booze-soaked years of her life, because the mere burden of carrying these secrets alone had been too much, too stressful, too overwhelming, and the alcohol had pushed back those feelings of sheer terror and despair.

But now the alcohol was gone and the terror and despair remained. She didn't want to go back to the black-out nights and head-pounding mornings, the feeling of moving in slow motion through her own life. Which meant she only had one other option.  _The truth will set you free, right?_

The family cat was curled up on the bed, not even flinching as Erin entered. She quickly changed into a pair of sweatpants and a tank before stretching across the comforter and pulling the feline into her chest. The cat stretched, blinked lazily, and burrowed closer to her as it purred in contentment. She absentmindedly stroked the silky fur as her mind wandered down roads of times past and moments best left forgotten.

* * *

**September 1993. Seattle, Washington.**

For the hundredth time, Erin Strauss made a mental note to get a carry-on bag with wheels. Her current bag, sans wheels, was slung over her shoulder, the thick leather straps pulling back and causing an uncomfortable strain on the muscles in her neck and chest. She was a light packer, but after hours spent in various planes, trains, and automobiles, the relatively light bag suddenly felt as if it weighed a ton.

Also for the hundredth time, she cursed her luck at drawing the short straw—the Seattle field office was in need of an analyst to run a seminar for the next few days, and Erin's number had come up again.

She knew what this trip was really about. Old Man O'Leary was leaving the Bureau, heading out to the greener pastures of retirement in just a few short weeks, and his position as SAC for the Washington D.C. field office would open up. Another agent, Mark Smith, would be tapped to take O'Leary's place, opening up his spot in Quantico's Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Erin Strauss was on the short list; she'd proven herself in the White Collar and Organized Crime Divisions, and her skills as an analyst, coupled with the fact that she was currently earning a degree in Behavioral Psych (in addition to the two others degrees that she already held), made her a prime match for the team. This seminar would be a test of sorts—its main focus was using computers to compile and analyze data, which of course was an integral part of ViCAP.

Erin knew that she looked good on paper, and now this seminar assignment was the unofficial live-action portion of the vetting process, some kind of new hoop for her to jump through, but she didn't mind the challenge. She'd spent most of her life and all of her career proving herself; one more test really didn't change anything. Although she wished that it could have been something closer to home—her mind was constantly flashing back to her husband and her three-year-old daughter back in Virginia. This was the first time she'd been away from her baby for so long, and her mother-heart had ached at the thought of leaving Jordan behind.

Her hotel room was small but adequate. She plopped her bag down on the bed unceremoniously, her grey eyes scanning the room. Through the window, she could see the infamous Seattle rain, and she smiled at the thought that she'd sleep like a baby tonight—rain always had that effect on her, and coupled with the sheer exhaustion that always accompanied flying, it would ensure that Erin would have no trouble drifting off.

The Seattle field office wasn't expecting her until the next morning, so tonight was her chance to unwind and prepare for the fast-paced days ahead. She unzipped her bag, rummaging around until she found her running pants and her sports bra. A quick trip to the hotel gym would help her nervous mind.

She grabbed her FBI-issue pager and clipped it to the band of her pants, pulling an over-sized t-shirt over her head before scraping her blonde locks back into a pony tail. She willed herself not to look at her reflection, because she was certain that she looked like hell. Not that it mattered—it wasn't as if she would run into anyone that she knew, in a quiet hotel exercise room across the continent from her home and work.

Despite the cool drizzle outside, the gym was warm and humid. Luckily, there were only a few people in the room, and Erin quietly took over a treadmill in the corner (she always had a thing about being in the corner, in restaurants and meetings and gyms, because it meant that she could take in the whole room, could never be surprised by someone sneaking up on her).

She upped her pace after a few minutes, relishing the warmth in her worn muscles. Without missing a step, she removed the t-shirt and tossed it across the treadmill bars. There were only two people in the room now, a man and a woman, and they looked like gym rats, so it wasn't anything they hadn't seen before.

From the corner of her eye, she saw someone else enter the room, but she didn't really pay any attention to the newcomer. She increased speed again; her mind going to the place where only her breathing and the solid feel of her feet against the whirring black strip were her only focus. After a few moments, however, she became aware that whoever had entered the gym was still staring at her. She didn't actually look over at him, but her peripheral vision could make out that it was a man, and she fought back a wave of irritation.  _Can't I just go for a fucking run without being ogled by a complete stranger?_

David Rossi walked into the now-familiar fitness center of his favorite Seattle hotel and felt as if he'd been slapped in the face. Like a scene from some masochistic macabre dream, Erin Strauss was bouncing along on a treadmill in the corner, and boy, was she bouncing. He hadn't seen her in almost four years now (not since right before she'd had the kid, he'd been transferred while she was still out on maternity leave), but motherhood had definitely been good for her—she'd gone up at least a cup size, although her purple running bra was valiantly trying to keep its charges in check, the increased size and weight were definitely noticeable.

He couldn't imagine why she would be here in this room, much less in this city, but he learned long ago never to question the gods of fate. It had only been a few years, and really, aside from the décolletage, she hadn't changed at all. Her face was still set in her perpetually stern expression, her hair was still light and her ass was still perfect.

She must have sensed his gaze, because her lips formed into a small snarl of irritation, although she didn't look over at him. Despite her anger, she wouldn't actually look in his direction—that was too confrontational, and Erin Strauss was one of the most passive-aggressive people he knew. She would use her peripheral vision, pretending as if she didn't even acknowledge his presence. David decided to use this to his advantage.

He sidled up to the neighboring treadmill, carefully keeping near the wall and as far out of Erin's direct line of sight as possible. If she actually looked at him and recognized him now, it would spoil the surprise. He fought back a grin of malicious glee, suddenly feeling like a child again, getting ready to pull a prank on some unsuspecting family member.

This angle also gave him a lovely view of her shoulders, muscles moving and rippling as her arms pumped in-time with her legs, her lower back now covered in a light sheen of sweat, the soaked dark-blonde tendrils plastered to the nape of her neck (he tried not to imagine these images in a different setting, tried but not really, and was quite alright with his failure).

He turned the dials on the treadmill, taking a moment to let the machine whirl to life before setting his feet on the moving strip. She had dropped her pace down again, catching her breath and cooling down a bit, and he quickly moved his upward, falling into cadence with her steps.

Erin wasn't sure what this creep's angle was (actually, she was quite sure, but she didn't even want to entertain that thought), so she studiously avoided his gaze, tried to retreat back to her own world but found that his scrutiny was too distracting. Now he was less than three feet away, matching her pace and looking at her with some kind of expectancy. Like running in sync was supposed to be some kind of metaphor for other rhythmic physical activities.  _Ugh_.

So of course, she cranked up the speed.

David fought back another smile at this little challenge. Of course, he followed suit, quickly matching her again.

Erin gave an irritated huff and upped her pace again.

Thoroughly enjoying himself, David also increased his speed, taking a childish delight in knowing that the red stain across that pristinely carved face wasn't just from physical exertion, but from anger. Angry Erin was always fun to play with, except for when she became Really Angry Erin. But she hadn't reached that level yet.

She reached for the dial again.

"What are you trying to prove, Erin?"

That voice. That voice, heavy and seductive and amused and irritating and so indescribably  _Rossi_.

Her blonde head whipped around, her mouth formed in a little  _O_  of shock as she truly looked at him for the first time, her grey eyes lighting up with recognition.

"David Rossi, what the hell are you doing here?" She had to slow the treadmill to keep from tripping over her own feet in surprise. He gratefully slowed pace as well.

"I could ask you the same thing." His eyes were dancing mischievously, so smug and proud of himself for catching her off-guard.

Her hand fluttered, gesturing off to the invisible, distant offices of the Seattle branch, "I'm teaching a seminar. Just flew in this evening."

"So you're vying for Mark Smith's old seat?" He guessed. There was a faint flush in Erin's cheeks that confirmed his question.

"I'd be a fool not to," she responded, turning her gaze back to the blank wall in front of her. "I've been trying to get into ViCAP since it was created. Besides, it doesn't jet around as much as Organized Crime does, so it's a better guarantee that I'll be home at a decent hour."

"Traveling can't be easy with a little one," he agreed.

She nodded, biting her bottom lip as she considered sharing this next piece of information with him. Against her better judgment, she did so, "Paul and I are thinking about trying for another, after the Christmas holidays. This position would be much more conducive to raising children."

"Still aiming for a boy?" David wasn't really surprised that Erin and her husband wanted more children. She'd always been the mothering type; he'd sensed that about her whenever they first worked together. She had always been good with kids, in that easy, effortless way that never seemed patronizing or overbearing.

She nodded again, a light smile on her lips, "You know how you men are. Eternally craving someone to carry on the family name."

He laughed at the quip, seeing the relieved smile on Erin's lips when she realized that he understood the joke as it was meant to be. They'd always been a bit uncertain around each other; their senses of humor weren't always aligned, and sometimes it created misunderstandings between them.

She slowed her pace down to a walk, taking a moment to give Rossi an appreciative once-over. "You look good, David."

His pulse quickened at the thought of what had happened the last time that she'd looked at him like that.

"You don't look too bad yourself, Erin." His eyes moved back to those lovely breasts, trying so hard to push out of their confinement. They were even more impressive up-close.

She could feel his eyes on her, but this time, it was a welcome feeling. David Rossi was an absolute wolf, but history had proven that she wasn't exactly an innocent little lamb, either.

Her mind went back to Paul, at home with Jordan. She couldn't do that to him, not again, not like the time in New York and the time in Philadelphia. Those times were different, things had been dark and sad between them, it was before Jordan, but now she and Paul were happy and planning their next big step as a family.

Of course, if she was honest with herself (which she rarely was these days), she would admit that they weren't happy, not entirely, not in the picture-perfect way they pretended to be. Paul wanted another child, and she wanted to give him another child, because he was kind and a good father to Jordan and he deserved this quiet American dream, not because she loved him and wanted to have another child with him. She loved her husband, but not in the way that she felt she should. Her love for Paul was some sort of honor-bound commitment, a duty (he was a good man and he sheltered her and he deserved her love, therefore she gave it to him), not the all-consuming thing that one read about in dime-store novels and sonnets of ages past. Then again, Erin Strauss didn't really think that she was capable of such love—it was a defective part of her, she supposed, something that simply couldn't be felt by her somehow damaged soul. Oh, she knew the deep, encompassing, life-consuming love of motherhood—she would die and kill for her daughter, she would move heaven and earth with her bare bleeding hands to spare her child from harm—but that, too, was a different sort of love.

"You still haven't told me why you're here," she reminded him, taking her discarded shirt and mopping the sweat from her face.

"Marriage number two is giving its death rattle. My wife is keeping the house," he answered easily. "I'm staying here until I can find a suitable apartment."

"Oh, David, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. I'm not." He gave a slight shrug of his shoulder, as if the situation was simply rolling off his back, but Erin knew him well enough to know that it was just a shield. She also knew that if David didn't want to talk about it, then she wasn't going to push it.

She simply changed the subject, and they continued catching up on each other's lives, slipping into an easy camaraderie that they'd developed after years of working together.

Once the workout was over, the two walked slowly back to the door together, both realizing that this little encounter was coming to a close and neither really ready to part ways.

Erin offered a warm smile, a deep one that set off her dimples and went all the way up to her eyes. "Well, David, it was great to see you."

"You, too, Erin," he opened his arms for a hug, and she eagerly obliged.

Of course, neither had thought about the fact that she wasn't wearing a shirt, and his hands wrapped around bare, moist flesh. She jumped back at the contact, and he took a certain delight in the fact that the deep flush across that beautifully freckled chest wasn't from her workout.

"Well, I, uh, it was nice seeing you," she tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear, her eyes focused on his chest, not his face.

"You've already said that," he couldn't help but be amused by how quickly she could devolve into a bumbling, shy little girl by something so small as his hands on her lower back. There was a twelve-year gap in their ages, but at times like this, it seemed like it was twenty.

"Yes. I have." She agreed, another flush staining her cheeks, which she quickly hid by pulling her t-shirt over her shoulders. David bit back a moan of disappointment as all that lovely skin disappeared beneath the dark cotton.

He opened the door with a flourish, motioning for her exit, "Ladies first."

"Bitches second." She purred, to which he grinned in response as he followed her out into the hallway.

"You don't fool me, you know," she didn't even turn to look at him as he caught up to her.

"I have no idea what you could possibly mean, Agent Strauss." His tone belied his words.

"You let me go first so that you could check out my ass." There wasn't any condemnation, just amusement.

David laughed, "I forgot how direct you can be."

"It's my most endearing quality," she deadpanned.

"Your ass disagrees."

It was her turn to laugh, a short, quick one that devolved into a simple hum. She simply shook her head.

"Dinner?" His voice was hopeful, but there was the slightest hint of uncertainty that Erin wasn't used to hearing.

She took a moment to look at him, the corner of her mouth quirking into a wry smile. She'd be lying if she said that her stomach hadn't flipped when he'd touched her skin, or that their light banter in the hall hadn't started a familiar warm tingling that almost always appeared when he was near.

It was a bad decision. It was always a bad decision whenever David Rossi was involved. And like she always did whenever David Rossi was involved, she simply ignored the little warning voice in her head.

"Sounds good."


	3. Flash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The agreement between Erin and David mentioned in this first section can be found in further detail in "Mulligan" and "Aftermath", two other one-shots by yours truly. In fact, I would recommend reading them, since they are the prequels that really led me to write this.

_"I know this much: that there is objective time, but also subjective time, the kind you wear on the inside of your wrist, next to where the pulse lies. And this personal time, which is the true time, is measured in your relationship to memory."_

_~Julian Barnes._

* * *

 

**March 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

He loved the office in the early morning, when the world was still quiet and sleepy and he could be left alone with his thoughts. The bullpen was empty, the agents' desks all neatly cleared and organized, the coffee hadn't been made yet, and the phones wouldn't start their incessant ringing for another hour. It was heavenly.

David Rossi's dark eyes darted to Hotch's office, and he was surprised to see that the light wasn't on—it wasn't often that he beat his supervisor to work. He quickly climbed the stairs and opened his own office, settling into his chair as he picked up the unmarked folder that never left his desk. The director had officially called them off the Replicator case, but that hadn't stopped the BAU team from working it between other cases.

He smiled softly as he thought about how Erin had gone to bat for them, defending them against the director's order to abandon the case. Part of him wondered if it was because she truly cared or if it was simply part of her semi-masochistic new journey into the amending process of step nine of twelve. Maybe it was a combination of both.

He supposed that he shouldn't know what step she was on, that he shouldn't be tracking her process through her first full year of sobriety, but his mind went back to that warm almost-summer day ten months ago. She'd stood before him, falling apart as she told him that she couldn't be anything more than his friend, because the program didn't look favorably upon relationships, and she needed this, she needed to be sober and to follow the program more than she'd needed anything else. In that moment, he'd known that it was physically hurting her to say such words, and he'd acquiesced (he always did, he always capitulated when it came to Erin Strauss' demands on his heart, always bent his neck for her heel), because he'd seen the fear and the sadness in her eyes and he would do anything to take that away, even if it meant tearing his own heart out.

She'd told him not to wait for her, and he'd promised that he wouldn't, and part of him had truly meant the promise, because he had known that they'd find their way back to one another, regardless of what happened (that was how they'd always been, how they would always be, two magnets that eventually clicked back together, two homing pigeons that always returned to each other to roost).

Now that first year was coming to a close, and as each day brought him closer to its arrival, he waited and prayed for some sign, some clue as to whether or not she had made a decision about their relationship—he would have to wait for her to initiate the conversation, because that was part of his promise, too. But suddenly it was as if he'd forgotten how to read her, as if he'd lost his ability to comprehend and predict her actions. David wondered if she'd truly changed that much or if he could still read the signs, but just refused to acknowledge them because they were telling him things that he didn't want to hear.

He shook his head, trying to cast out all thought of the blonde section chief as he submerged his attention in the folder's contents. The next time he resurfaced, the bullpen was buzzing with activity and the clock informed him that there would be a briefing in ten minutes.

As if on cue, Hotch appeared in his doorway, dark eyes immediately zeroing in on the folder, "Strauss was asking if there were any new developments last night. I think she's truly worried about us."

"Wonders never cease," David responded dryly, closing the folder.

"She's obviously reached step nine." It was the first time that Hotch had ever mentioned Strauss' recovery.

"With the way she's been acting since Blake arrived, I think she's been at that step for quite some time now," David agreed. He didn't ask how Hotch knew that he was aware of Erin's battle for sobriety; they'd never discussed it, not even during her conspicuous fourteen week leave of absence after the Somerville Military Academy case. But Aaron Hotchner didn't get where he was by being a slow or unobservant man, so Rossi was certain that Hotch had simply picked up enough to guess that David was in the loop.

Hotch gave a curt nod of agreement. So Dave was fully aware of Erin's situation. He'd suspected as much, but the older man's words had just confirmed it.

"Conference room in ten," Hotch reminded him, turning and moving down the stairs to JJ, who had just arrived in the bullpen with a stack of potential new cases.

David's dark eyes traveled to the other members of the team, silently trying to figure out who else knew Erin's secret. Garcia, probably. She had access to all employee records. Hotch, obviously. Morgan, probably, since he'd been partnered with her during the Somerville case. Reid, probably not. JJ, equally unlikely. Blake, probably. If Erin had approached her and used the word "amends", it would have been a clear signal, and Blake wasn't exactly dull.

He didn't know why it bothered him, knowing that other people knew about her alcoholism. Perhaps because it had the potential to tarnish the sterling reputation that Erin had spent the last three decades perfecting, perhaps because not all of the people on his team saw her as a friend or even an ally, and he feared how they might use it to harm her, perhaps because it was something personal, something private, and he didn't like the idea that other people were a part of it.

Of course, other people  _were_  part of it. Her ex-husband, her three kids, her other family members and close friends and random people in Alcoholics Anonymous, and the higher-ups who had quietly gotten her into a treatment facility and who occasionally brought her in for meetings to make sure that she was still "on-track" (he shouldn't know that last part, but he did, he could even guess which days those meetings took place, because she always seemed more tired, more resigned, more like the condemned waiting for the guillotine). Although he knew that she'd done this to herself, he hated the price she'd paid for trying to recover.

"Let's get briefing, Mio Amore," Penelope Garcia called to him as she sashayed past his door, fuzzy pink pen in hand. He couldn't help but grin at her pink marabou shoes and 1950s print dress, complete with a light pink fascinator. There was a reason that they called her the Mad Hatter of Quantico, and she wore the title almost as well as she rocked the fluffy pink pumps.

* * *

**Rockland, Maine.**

They were disembarking the plane at Knox County Regional Airport when Hotch's phone tumbled out of his hands, down the steps and onto the concrete with a sickening crack.

"Oh, that's not good," Reid, aka Dr. Obvious, commented.

Hotch swore under his breath as he reached the bottom of the ramp, gingerly picking up the shattered remains. Morgan simply snickered at his boss' smooth moves, shaking his head as he followed with his usual easy gait.

Officer Guest, a thin man with an understandably worried expression, came out on the tarmac to greet them. The relief in his eyes was unmistakable, and Alex Blake felt a pang of compassion for him—it was always the same, that look of ' _oh, here come the good guys, here comes someone who can save us_ ', and it never failed to ratchet up the tension that always pooled in her stomach at the realization that the BAU was last line of defense when it came to capturing these types of monsters. If they didn't get this UNSUB, then who would? And how many more lives would this demon devour before they did stop him?

Hotch made the introductions, quickly dropping his frustration and slipping back into his role as team leader. Then he turned back to the others. "Reid and Rossi, head to the latest crime scene. Blake, you're going to police headquarters with me. Morgan and JJ, find the nearest cell phone provider and get me a replacement."

"Why am I stuck on cell phone duty?" Morgan dutifully took the pieces of Hotch's former phone, but he obviously wasn't happy about it.

"Because you laughed."

"Wait...then why do I have to go?" JJ's eyes were wide with innocence. "I didn't laugh."

"Because someone has to keep an eye on him," Hotch turned on his heel and headed towards the black SUVs that were patiently waiting along the tarmac.

JJ and Morgan exchanged exasperated looks, but they both knew better than to push it any further.

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia**.

Though her eyes were focused on the paperwork in front of her, at the edge of her peripheral vision Erin could see a pair of legs standing outside her door.

"What is it, Carrington?" She didn't look up.

"You remember how you told me that if anything comes in for the BAU team, you wanted to be informed?" The petite brunette stepped timidly into the room, her hands still playing nervously with a manila envelope.

"I do." Erin suddenly became interested, her grey-green eyes immediately latching onto the package in the receptionist's hands.

"I had Taylor reroute all incoming mail and packages to me," Carrington admitted, stepping forward again to lay the envelope on Erin's desk. "This just came in. It passed all the scans, so it's safe…I guess."

"You  _guess_?" Erin drawled, staring over the top of her reading glasses at the younger woman.

"Well, you could still get a paper cut from it," Carrington replied, her face schooled into a blank expression. Obviously, she wasn't frightened by Erin's demeanor. This snarky retort earned her a light smirk from her boss, who gingerly picked up the envelope as she searched for her letter opener.

She glanced at the postmark. No return address, but a stamp from Cleveland, Ohio. It was addressed simply to The Behavioral Analysis Unit, no team member in particular. Taking a breath, she pulled the blade of the letter opener quickly across the envelope's tab. Cautiously, she opened the envelope, peering inside to inspect the contents without actually touching them.

"What is it?" Carrington leaned forward in curiosity.

"A blank sheet of paper." The blonde frowned. "At least that's what it seems at first glance."

Her eyes flicked back to the receptionist, who realized that it was her cue to leave.

"Oh, yeah, I have…copies to make," Carrington motioned to her desk, back-pedaling out of the room.

Erin set the envelope down again, reaching for the phone as she bit her bottom lip with worry. She knew that the team was out in the field, and she shouldn't distract them by telling them that they'd just received another potential communiqué from their stalker, but she suddenly had an overwhelming need to simply know that they were alright.

She dialed Aaron's cell number by memory. Surprisingly, he didn't answer. With a slight frown of confusion, she fished her own cell out of her purse, scrolling through her contacts until she found  _D. Rossi_. Glancing down at the number on the screen, she punched in the digits on her desk phone.

As soon as it rang, she realized that she should have called someone else.

* * *

**Rockland, Maine**.

David felt the familiar buzz in his coat pocket, holding up a finger to excuse himself from the conversation as he glanced at the caller ID. It was a Quantico line, but it wasn't one that was programmed into his phone, which meant it wasn't Garcia's direct line. He stepped into the hallway of the latest victim's house, making a quick gesture to Reid, who simply nodded and went back to the crime scene walk-through with the local detectives.

"Rossi."

"David, it's Erin." Her usually cool tone was wobbly and uncertain, as if she was nervous or had been crying. Either option wasn't good.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I—I don't think anything's wrong. I just—Agent Hotchner isn't answering his cell, and I just wanted to check in."

"You just wanted to check in?" He was incredulous. "What are we, a bunch of probies?"

"No, I didn't mean to imply—I know you can handle yourself just fine in the field," she apologized quickly, and he could imagine her blushing (she always blushed profusely whenever she was flustered, from the tip of her ears to the valley between her breasts).

"What's wrong, Erin?" He asked again.

"Why isn't Aaron answering his phone?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"Neither did you." Her tone had become less uncertain. She was slowly slipping back into her usual bullish demeanor.

"He broke his phone."

"He broke his phone?"

"That's what I said."

"You're quite the man for details, aren't you, Agent Rossi?" Her voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"You haven't answered my question,  _Chief_ ," he somehow made the title sound like an insult. "Why are you calling? What's happened?"

"As your  _Chief_ ," she mimicked his emphasis on the word. "I have every right to check your progress in the field; in fact, it's part of our protocol—not that I would expect you to remember such a thing, since you seem to have a particular disdain for following the rules—"

"I wrote most of 'em," he retorted. He couldn't help but add, "And if memory serves, I am not the only one in this conversation guilty of breaking protocol."

She cleared her throat, and he was certain that she was blushing again. "Yes, thank you for that reminder, Agent Rossi."

He let out a frustrated sigh, glancing around to make sure no one was nearby to overhear him. This wasn't how he'd wanted this conversation to go, especially since this was one of the few times they'd actually spoken in the past year.

"I'm sorry, Erin, that was a low blow." His tone was quiet, gentle.

He heard her exhale. "No, no. I started it, you just followed along. I shouldn't have said that."

Twenty years ago (hell, even five years ago), neither would have apologized, and they both would have devolved into a screaming match, most likely one of epic proportions (back in the day, their battles had been the stuff of office legend). David gave a soft chuckle,  _My, how much we've grown_.

"Seriously, is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine." Her voice was softer, almost a whisper. "I just…with all this stuff going on, I worry about you. About all of you."

"Everyone's fine, Erin." He assured her. Reid was leaning out of the doorway, obviously waiting on him. "I've gotta go. Hotch should have a new phone in about an hour."

"You'll let me know if something happens?"

He realized that she wasn't talking about the current case—she wanted to know if something from the Replicator appeared.

"I will, Erin." He said her name again, this time like a caress.

"Good." Her tone resumed its business-like air. "Good luck, Agent Rossi."

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia.**

Erin hung up with another sigh, rubbing her forehead in frustration. Of course, it only took twenty seconds on the phone with David Rossi for her to devolve into a squabbling, petulant child.  _That was a great idea, Erin. Definitely one of your finer moments of diplomacy and professionalism._

She glanced out into the reception area, where Carrington was mastering the art of hovering without actually being in the same room, pretending to be hard at work at her desk. Erin stood quickly, snatching up the envelope and brushing past the reception desk.

"Um, Erin?" Carrington didn't move, but her porcelain blue eyes followed her boss across the room.

"I'm taking it down to the lab."

"You do realize that someone else can take it down for you, don't you?" Carrington pointed out. Her cadence was low and slow, as if she were speaking to someone who'd suffered a brain injury. "There are people here who are employed to take things from one department to the next. People who don't have other, more important things to be doing."

Her boss shot her a dark look which informed Carrington that her snark was not appreciated at this particular moment.

"I'd prefer to take it myself," Erin said evenly, and the hard line of her mouth told her receptionist that she would brook no rebuttals on the matter. She turned pertly on her plum Jimmy Choos, tossing over her shoulder, "I'll be back soon."

She moved easily through the maze of hallways and elevators with the reassurance of one who is in their natural habitat. This building had been explored and conquered by her for almost thirty years now, a realization that made her feel as if her life had passed by in a flash.

* * *

**September 1986. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.**

Special Agent Erin Strauss clutched her stack of thick folders with a white-knuckle grip, pressing them into her chest in a subconscious effort to steel herself as she clipped quickly through the cool corridors of the William J. Green Federal Building. Her eyes flicked from door to door, looking for the appropriate room number. She was thankful that this floor was laid out just like the third floor—her usual haunt, which housed the White Collar Crime Division. She'd been working at the Philadelphia Field Office for almost a year now, but she really only knew how to get from the parking garage to her own desk.

She found her lucky number frosted across a glass door at the end of the hallway, along with the words  _Organized Crime Division_. Taking one last deep breath, she opened the door and plunged into the office bull pen. No one even gave her a second glance as she skirted around the maze of desks and she was glad for the lack of attention—she always hated walking into a room full of strangers, especially here, where being a woman made her a minority and being a blonde, attractive woman made her even rarer. Most of the agents who were around her age treated her with respect, but there were still a few older men, the old suits who came from a different era, with their pinstripes and cigars and sexist jokes, who gave her strange looks as if she were some mythical beast or acted as if she was somehow incapable of understanding complex sentences. And though those instances had been few and far between, it was something for which she braced herself every time she entered a new division.

She quickly found another door marked  _Ralph Richardson_. She gave a quick knock and entered when she heard the voice within.

The man standing in the middle of the office was not Ralph Richardson. In fact, he was Ralph's polar opposite: Ralph was a red-headed, freckle-faced, gangly, slightly uncoordinated man who looked like he was still about twelve years old; the man staring back at Erin was tanned, with thick black hair and dark eyes to match, average height with well-built shoulders and a relaxed air that made him seem almost cat-like.

Erin stepped back, slightly disconcerted. Her eyes darted back to the name on the door, double-checking to make sure she had the right office.

"Ralph stepped out for a moment," the man replied. She recognized the face as someone she'd met or seen before, perhaps someone she'd spotted occasionally in the elevator or parking garage, but she couldn't remember his name.

As if on cue, Ralph barreled in behind her, "Hullo, Erin. Watcha got for me?"

"Oh, I, um, here's what we've collected over the last three years for the Sturon case." She gave him the stack of folders, her eyes flickering back to the man in the corner. Ralph suddenly remembered his manners.

"Forgive me. Erin Strauss, White Collar, this is David Rossi, HRT," Ralph held the files in one hand, motioning between the two with his other. "Dave, this is Erin."

"We've met before, briefly," David said smoothly, reaching out to shake Erin's hand. "But it is nice to see you again, Agent Strauss."

She gave a curt nod, thankful that Ralph had supplied Rossi's name and spared her the embarrassment of admitting that she'd forgotten it. Of course, as soon as she heard the name, the light went off in her brain—yes, this was David Rossi, the hot-shot hostage negotiator and behavioral analyst, the one she'd met at last year's Christmas after-party (though, in defense of her shoddy memory, she'd been very drunk and most of that night remained a hazy blur). She'd recognized his name that night when he'd introduced himself at the bar, because even though his face wasn't familiar, his name had been a by-word during her time at the Academy. Funny, today he looked so much more placid, standing in Ralph's office with his hands tucked into his pants pockets—her fuzzy memory had painted him as much more exotic and intoxicating. Of course, the copious amounts of alcohol she'd consumed could have turned anyone into Clark Gable.

Ralph happily installed himself back in his well-worn chair, feet propped up on the edge of his desk as he thumbed through the files. Giving him a moment to look over the materials, Erin turned her attention to Agent Rossi.

"What is Hostage Rescue's interest in Chaz Sturon?" She nodded towards the stack of folders, which contained every scrap of data that they'd collected on the mogul, who was being secretly investigated for fraud by the White Collar Division and was suspected of having ties to the Mafia by the Organized Crime Division.

"Nothing yet," Rossi replied easily. Noting Erin's confusion, he clarified, "I'm just in Philly for the weekend, and I thought I'd stop in and take an old friend out to lunch."

"Oh, I see." She cocked her head to the side, trying to remember the snippets she'd heard about him over the years. "So, you're still at Quantico?"

"Yes," he gave a small smile, one that didn't reach his eyes.

Ralph tossed one thick folder onto his desk, opening another one with a slight whistle of appreciation, "Geez, Erin, what parts of this man's life did you leave out?"

"Well, I haven't gotten my hands on his last prostate exam," she deadpanned. "But don't worry, I'm working on it."

This earned her a grin and wry shake of the head from Ralph and a slightly shocked chuckle from Agent Rossi.

"Erin's a legend in the making when it comes to research," Ralph informed David. "I've been trying to steal her away from White Collar ever since she got here."

"I wish you'd try harder," Erin admitted with a light sigh.

"Goodwin can be quite a cross to bear," Rossi's tone was filled with amusement as he referred to Strauss' supervisor. She merely rolled her eyes heavenward in agreement.

"I'll have someone make copies of all the important stuff and get all the originals back to you ASAP," Ralph promised, setting the rest of the stack onto his desk as he stood, grabbing his wallet and his keys from his top desk drawer. "But as Dave pointed out, we've got a lunch date."

With one last curt nod to Ralph and a quick smile to David, the blonde analyst turned smartly on her heel and exited. Ralph was still rearranging items on his desk, giving David a chance to observe the woman briskly walking away.

Like Erin, he didn't have a crystal-clear memory of the Christmas party, though he'd been closer to sobriety than she was, but he did remember meeting the spitfire woman and making a mental note that he'd have to get to know her better later on. Obviously, that memo had been forgotten—he hadn't even realized that she had been transferred to the Philadelphia branch.

He remembered how much younger she'd looked a few months ago, how much more vivacious and outgoing she'd seemed. Still, she was a good looking woman, although she tried to down-play her physical features by wearing very little makeup and keeping her hair in a no-nonsense bun. Obviously, she had something to prove—her slacks were loose, barely touching her legs, her button-down blouse and blazer hid her curves, she wore no jewelry except for a thin gold band on her left hand, and her shoes were masculine, blockish. She wanted to be taken seriously, and with a face like that, it probably wasn't something that happened very often. From what David could remember from his brief interactions with her current supervisor, Goodwin, he recalled that the man seemed to believe that beauty and brains simply couldn't coexist, and most of the female agents begged to be transferred after only a few weeks under his command.

"How long has she been here?" David asked casually, his eyes never leaving her retreating form.

"Since January, I think," Ralph replied, still focused on the contents of his desk.

So she'd survived Goodwin longer than most of the others. Either Special Agent Strauss was a raging masochist, or she felt like she had something to prove. David guessed it was a little of both.

If her clothes hadn't provided enough insight, her body language had. She was nervous, always looking for approval, still unsure of her own abilities. But she also had a good sense of humor that came out to play when she felt comfortable, and that was a critical skill for anyone who wanted to make a career of this stressful and unpredictable line of work. And Rossi recalled something else that another agent had said about her at the Christmas party—she was a career agent. He hadn't seen it then, but he could now. She had that look about her.

"She's already off the market, Dave." Ralph had noticed the dark-haired man's gaze.

"I wasn't scoping her out like that," Rossi replied.

"Of course you weren't," a smile quirked at the corner of his friend's mouth. Sometimes David Rossi was so predictable. He added affably, "Even if she was available, she's not someone you'd wanna mess with. Do you know what her maiden name is?"

David gave him a blank look that said he obviously didn't, so Ralph continued, "Breyer."

"Breyer?" The dark-haired man tried to figure out the connection.

"As in a certain judge in the D.C. Circuit Court of Appeals." Ralph finished for him. He smiled when he saw his friend's face suddenly light up in recognition.

"Bleeding Heart Breyer's daughter works for us?" David looked back at the bullpen, although Erin was long gone by now.

Ralph's grin deepened. "That whole clan's all about civil servitude. One of her brothers is a D.A. down in Virginia, and the other one's some kind of politician, I think."

"Boy, I bet she gets the short end of the stick at family gatherings," David shook his head with a wry smile. Jameson E. Breyer was so liberal that he made the Warren Court look like conservative Southern Baptists. He also had not been a fan of the Bureau's tactics regarding paid informants, public corruption, and pretty much anything else that even hinted at invasion of privacy—and he'd been quite vocal in his disapproval. He surely hadn't been happy at the thought of his offspring working for the FBI.

Ralph chuckled in agreement as they made their way out of his office and to the elevators. David couldn't resist the urge to crane his neck, looking to see if he could spot Erin Breyer Strauss walking down the hall. Ralph's words had meant to discourage his interest, and yet, they'd served to only increase his curiosity. Justice Breyer was a man of conviction, a strong man with the personality of a steamroller—anyone with the will to oppose him was certainly a force in their own right. A possible raging masochist with a rebellious streak and a backbone of steel, with killer wit to match. Oh, now he was really going to have to get to know her better. He'd met her twice, for a total of less than ten minutes, and she was already proving to be quite a fascinating creature.


	4. Contrition and Reconciliation

_ "The practice of peace and reconciliation is one of the most vital and artistic of human actions." _

_ ~Nhat Hanh. _

* * *

**March 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

The light was on in Hotch's office when the team entered the bullpen; they could see the blonde halo peeking over the back of a chair as Chief Strauss awaited their fearless leader's return—her shoes were discarded next to her chair, and her feet were propped up in the other chair that Hotch kept positioned in front of his desk. Obviously she'd been there for a while.

"This can't be good," Rossi muttered in a low tone, where only Hotch could hear him.

"She isn't exactly known as the bearer of glad tidings," his supervisor agreed dryly, making his way up the stairs and to his office with an air of resignation.

At the sound of his approach on the stairs, Erin sat up, swiveling around to greet him when he opened the door.

"I'm sorry to just surprise you like this, Aaron, but I didn't want to take the chance that I might miss you before you left this evening." The look on her face instantly filled his stomach with dread.

"What's happened?"

She picked up an 8x10 photo that was draped over her lap, handing it to him as she explained, "A blank piece of paper came in the mail yesterday. I took it to the lab; they dusted for prints, but of course, there were none. This is what they found when they placed it under a UV light."

He gingerly took the photo, his expression impassive. It was a picture of a piece of paper, with glowing numbers scrawled across it.

"Invisible ink." He surmised.

Erin continued, "They still have the paper, but I wouldn't let them run any more tests until I'd spoken to you. I thought you might want to take a look at it first, see what you can glean from it, just in case they somehow damage it during analysis."

He nodded, "I'll let Reid examine it first thing in the morning. Right now, I want to let them go home and get some sleep."

"I think that's a wise decision," she agreed as she rose to her feet, slipping back into her heels and pushing the chairs into their original position.

"Thank you, Erin." The softer tone of his voice caused her to look back up at him. His eyes met hers and she could tell that he truly meant the sentiment.

"I wish I could do more," she confessed quietly, as if somehow she was admitting a weakness by realizing that there was, in fact, nothing more for her to do. Straightening her shoulders, she gave him a pointed look. "I think we both know who sent it."

"Yes, I think we do."

"Rockland went well?"

"As well as can be expected. You'll have the full report by tomorrow morning." The response was so typically Aaron that his supervisor couldn't help but smile.

"Well, good night, Agent Hotchner."

"Good night, Chief."

Erin could have used the closest stairway and avoided Rossi's office altogether, but as usual, her logic stood no chance against her heart whenever that man was concerned, and she brushed past his office, glancing through the open door to see him seated at his desk, looking out expectantly, as if he knew that she would come by.

She checked her stride and pulled herself back into his doorway, her hands clasped behind her back as she looked down at the floor.

"I…I lied to you yesterday, when you asked if anything was wrong," she confessed quickly. She looked up at him with a small smile. "Of course, I'm sure you knew that."

"I suspected as much."

She simply waited, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, looking so uncertain, as if she feared his reaction might be something harsher. He felt a pang of pity for her, his warrior queen who'd never seemed this hesitant and fearful (at least not in many years, not since she'd come into her own at the Bureau), and he felt a wave of sadness at the realization that he was the cause of her anxiety. How the hell did they get this way? After all they'd been through, after countless spats and caresses and victories and defeats, all the years of knowing and unknowing and reknowing each other, how had they become these awkward people who no longer understood one another, who held their breaths in fear of the other's response?

But that was a question for another day—a question he couldn't ask until she allowed him to, and it was obvious that it wasn't going to happen tonight.

"So," Rossi sat back, mentally preparing himself for what was to come. "What is wrong?"

She stepped further into his office, glancing over her shoulder as if she didn't want the rest of the team to somehow overhear. "The BAU received a blank piece of paper in the mail yesterday. I'm pretty sure it's from the Replicator. Aaron has it now, and I'm sure he'll brief the team on it in the morning, but I wanted you to know."

He gave a small nod of thanks. She continued, her gaze dropping back to the ground, "That's why I called to make sure that you were all OK. I know, it's a silly thing—"

"Caring about someone isn't silly, Erin," his voice was gentle, and she knew that he wasn't just talking about her concern for the BAU team.

"I didn't want to distract you with the information, so I couldn't tell you." She added, although she was certain that Rossi could understand her reasoning.

He did. "Of course. That was the right thing to do."

"Of course," she agreed quickly, turning to leave. Then she stopped, turned around fully, clasped her hands in front of her, unclasped them, re-arranged the bangles at her wrist.

"I just…I don't like keeping secrets from you, David." She quickly added, "At least not anymore."

Her words pricked his intuition, and he knew there was something in them that held some clue—he just wasn't sure which words and what clues. But there was something hopeful in them, because she'd said  _anymore_ , implying that things were changing. He hoped that they were changing for the best, but right now, any kind of change would be welcome, because at least he'd have a clearer idea of where he stood with her.

"It wasn't keeping a secret," he pointed out, his voice still soft. He rose to his feet, but she took a step back, shying away from him, so he didn't move any closer. "It was protecting us from distraction. You know that, and I know that, and the others will understand that as well. Besides, you told us as soon as you could."

She nodded again, forcing her eyes to meet his, "It's just...I don't like how it feels. Not when the stakes are so high."

"I understand." He did but he didn't, not really, because he wasn't sure what they were talking about now, although he was certain that it wasn't about a simple piece of paper in the mail.

She nodded quickly, giving another small smile of relief. She turned to go, giving one last look over her shoulder, "Good night."

"Good night, Erin." He watched her walk away. Then he simply shook his head in wonderment. This wasn't who they used to be—these people with the demure glances and quiet apologies, the forgivenesses couched in caring tones (before, they simply moved on, never discussing, never apologizing, never forgiving)—and yet he took it as a good sign. It was a sign of the times, and the times, they were a'changing.

He smiled gently to himself as he sat back, his mind traveling over the litany of their greatest hits—though his definition of such was probably vastly different than most. Though yesterday's spat over the phone certainly hadn't been worthy of qualifying for the list, it was different in the fact that it had ended with an apology of sorts, and most notably, that Erin had been the penitent one. He was pretty sure that was a first—regardless of who started the fight, he'd usually been the one to make the first steps towards reconciliation.

* * *

**March 1990. New York City, New York.**

"Sweet Jesus in short-pants, Erin, it isn't that difficult to underst—"

"I  _understand_  what you're saying, David, but I'm saying that  _it's wrong_."

"Just because you little collection of data doesn't support—"

"That's right; the data doesn't support it. And if the data doesn't support it, then It. Is. Wrong."

Special Agent Sandra Chen simply shook her head, turning to her coworkers with a wry grin. "Place your bets, ladies and gents, it looks like this one's gonna be a doozy."

SSA Mike Mikkelsen chuckled in agreement, sitting back in his chair as he watched Rossi and Strauss in action. David Rossi was a good half-foot taller than his blonde counterpart, but her anger seemed to make her the more physically imposing of the two. Of course, she was also thirty-five weeks pregnant and therefore twice her usual size. Despite having a belly full of her first child, Erin Strauss was still traipsing around the country with them, with more energy than most of the younger agents who didn't have the excuse of thirty extra pounds of unborn babe. Although Mike was certain that Rossi wasn't very appreciative of her stamina at this particular moment.

They'd been fighting over a tactical decision for almost a full twenty-four hours now—everyone else had simply given up, had agreed that they would go with whomever won, just so long as the two would shut up. Diplomacy had failed. Analysis of pros and cons had failed. Offering to flip a coin had failed. Everything had failed. Except screaming. Screaming had proved to be a tireless task for these two.

"Damn the facts, Erin, I've been inside this guy's head—I know what he's up to!" The Italian roared, throwing his hands up in exasperation. A lesser person (or perhaps just a sane one) would have stepped back, but Strauss moved in closer, face upturned angrily into his, fists clenched stiffly at her sides.

"You can't prove it." She didn't yell, but her voice was thick with anger. "You can't prove it because the data—"

"Fuck the data!" David trumpeted, angrily turning to the conference room table and pushing over Erin's meticulously compiled stack of papers in the process, sending them flying around the room.

There was an awful, heart-pounding moment as the entire room stood still, holding their breaths as the two simply stared each other down.

Erin slowly unclenched her fists, placed them on her hips. Her voice was so low that the others could barely hear her. "Feel better, Agent Rossi?"

"Much better," he admitted, his tone matching hers.

With a wry shake of her head and a frustrated rub of her forehead, Erin took a deep breath, turning away from him for a moment. She was tired, and he knew it, but she'd continued to fight just to prove that she could still roll with whatever punches he threw at her, and he knew that, too. She was tired and she was aching and she had the sickening feeling that David Rossi was actually right. Still, it was a point of pride, and capitulation of any form did not come easily to the blonde (this was something else David knew, because he was the same in that respect).

He also knew that he never should have started this argument with her, that he should have remained calm and detached, should have presented his position logically, in a way that fit within the pristinely ordered thought patterns of her brain, but of course that hadn't happened—as usual, he'd taken the defensive route, had shot down Erin's ideas before she'd even fully explained them (though now he could admit that they weren't bad strategies, they just didn't fit this particular UNSUB), had bellowed when he should have whispered, had stomped when he should have simply breathed. But she always had that effect on him, always pushed him in the opposite direction, away from everything that he knew and understood and wanted, which was both unsettling and intriguing.

Her shoulders hitched slightly, and he saw her hand go instintively to her lower back, which had been bothering her even more over the past few days. Normally, she would still be screaming back at him—they could go round and round like this for days, weeks even—but she was drained, she was pale and sickly looking and the last few weeks had been utter hell for her. David knew that she was about to throw in the towel, and for once, he did not feel the slightest satisfaction in knowing that he was going to win.

When she turned back around, her eyes were cautious, "You really think this is how he'll play it?"

"I do," he gave a curt nod.

"If you're wrong, you could compromise this entire investigation," her voice held a darker threat, which he heard loud and clear. It was her final push, her last charge in this particular battle.

"Then it's a good thing I'm not wrong," he retorted, bringing his face just inches from hers. If she was still in the game, then so was he.

Suddenly the corner of her thin lips curled into a smirk, and their fellow agents let out a collective sigh of relief—it was a sure sign that the war was over, for now. There was still a hardness in those grey eyes that informed David that his win would come at a price, though her voice was practically purring, "You're one egotistical bastard, David Rossi."

"That I am," he agreed with a grin that matched hers. "But I'm also right."

She stamped her smile back into a thin line. "Fine. We'll go with your plan."

With that, she whipped around, breezing past the other agents as she threw her last words over her shoulder, "Now pick up the mess your little temper-tantrum made. And make sure they're all stacked back  _in order_."

Agent Chen watched the blonde analyst disappear down the hallway. "Two peas in a pod, they are. Strangest damn thing I ever saw."

"They work," Mikkelsen shrugged, rising to his feet to help Rossi gather all the scattered sheets of paper. "Sometimes ya gotta look past the method and simply appreciate the results."

* * *

New York City was experiencing the warmest year in its recorded history, which meant that in March, the weather was pleasant enough for Erin to sit outside without a jacket, which meant that she'd been out of the office as much as possible during their two-week stay, though she never let her excursions interfere with her work (she was much too dependable and task-oriented to allow that). Of course, the fact that staying outside also meant successfully avoiding David Rossi, except when absolutely necessary, was just another welcome perk.

She was being petty and childish, she knew that, but pregnancy had worn down her usually-smooth edges, and she suddenly found that the things she could once bear had now become nearly intolerable. She was uncomfortable and tired and away from home and the soothing softness of Paul, and the 24/7 contact with David Rossi was pushing her to the edge. Of course, matters certainly weren't helped by the fact that there were still some very unresolved feelings between them (had it only been fifteen months ago?) which they had agreed to never speak about, and the fact that right now, her hormones were in overdrive and she was surrounded by the one man who was her only weakness. To quote Rossi's favorite phrase,  _Sweet Jesus in short-pants_.

It was like being involutarily cast in some sadistic comedy, and though Erin could appreciate the utter absurdity of it all, it didn't mean that she had to enjoy it. And since she'd rather have her eyes carved out with very dull spoons instead of confront her feelings, Erin would simply choose the path of least resistance—she wouldn't fight with him anymore (at least not now, not when she was too worn down from the last battle royale), which left only one option. She'd simply avoid him for the next few days, until her maternity leave kicked in and she could return home. It was a childish, completely unprofessional plan, but it was all she had, so she went with it.

The object of her avoidance was winding his way through the maze of cubicles and halls in the Jacob K. Javits Federal Office Building, searching for her, his frown deepening with each failure. She was now thirty-six weeks pregnant, and he didn't like the idea of her wandering off by herself (she'd said he was worse than an old woman, the way he carried on, but that hadn't stopped him from worrying). Regardless of whether or not they'd solved this case, her maternity leave started next week, and he didn't want her to go, at least not like this.

In public, Erin and David had continued working together on the case, acting as if the 24-hour standoff and the little scene in the conference room had never happened, but in private, they were sulky and snippish with one another, in taxi cabs and elevator rides and little asides that the other agents didn't hear. Erin could hold a grudge better than anyone else David knew, and he was learning firsthand just how painful it was to be the target of her contempt.

All because he made an intuitive leap (which proved to be right, and which was probably why she sulked so much over it), because that was how his brain worked, how he understood the world, and it was in direct opposition to Erin and her logic and her ordered rows of data. There was a reason that she held the title  _crime_  analyst, not  _behavioral_  analyst. She could map out the crime, give seventy-seven details on the how, the what, the when, the where, but she couldn't formulate the why (well, she could, but she preferred not to, because it was a guess, and guesses could be wrong, and Erin Strauss didn't like being wrong, didn't like uncertainty and assumptions when she could have solid, stable facts).

David knew these things about her, knew that she felt her lack of intuition made her feel inadequate and bumbling, like a first year G-man, despite the praise she'd recieved for her work. Of course, she also was barely over thirty (thirty one or thirty two, he couldn't always keep track) and still held the insecurities of being a half-grown adult, still finding her place in the world of the Bureau.

He found her sitting outside the building on an iron-wrought bench (normally, she would be sitting on the curb, but she'd had to give that up around month six of her pregnancy), eyes closed, face turned up to the cloudy sky. Despite her dark suits and her desk job in a world of steel and concrete, Erin was still some strange hippie-earth-mother who liked feeling a connection to nature, and whenever things got too stressful or too hectic, she could be found somewhere outdoors.

Erin heard footsteps approaching, and the electric singing under her skin informed her that it could only be one person—she never understood how she could sense him like that, as if her body held some chemical ESP that always reacted instantaneously to his presence. Still, she didn't look at him, didn't speak, or move, or acknowledge his presence. She waited.

She heard him sigh, felt the warmth of his eyes on her skin, and that was when she realized that he'd come in peace, not to continue their fight (which is what he did so often, even after he'd won, because he knew it angered her and he actually  _liked_  seeing her angry). She could tell that he was debating whether or not to sit beside her, could almost physically feel his uncertainty rising as his mind tried to find the words to say.

Her irritation melted at his uncharacteristic bout of hesitation, and she suddenly wanted everything to simply be alright between them again, because while she didn't mind making him angry, she hated making him sad or upset or uncertain. Those were emotions she knew all too well, and she didn't like being responsible for inspiring them in others, no matter how much they might deserve it.

Words never worked for them, except when they used them to hurt one another. But soft things, kind things were never really spoken between them, they were merely felt and understood. She knew this and he knew this, and it was simply part of who they were. She decided to be magnanimous, throwing him a lifeline by simply patting the space next to her.

He sat down, wordlessly offering her a pack of peanut-butter crackers when she finally looked at him. She gave a small smile at the gift (she'd been ill every day of her pregnancy, the promise of only three months of morning sickness broken so cruelly, and crackers had become her dietary staple, especially when they were on the road and she couldn't afford to be sick) and gently took it, opening it and handing him a cracker. It was a peace offering, a silent sign that they were OK.

They ate their crackers in silence, watching the traffic buzz by. There weren't any apologies; there never were. They were both too prideful to capitulate and both too vindictive to refrain from turning the other's apology into a chance to take a few more jabs. They'd tried apologizing after their first few spats, but it always went to hell in a handbasket, and so they'd both realized that it was simply best to keep moving along, moving past the slights and the fights at their own pace. They didn't talk about it, they didn't even use it as leverage in future battles. They'd know when everything was OK again, simply because they'd fall back into sync.

Right now, they were healing, molding back into whatever strange partnership they were. Until then, they enjoyed the quiet moment for whatever it was.

"I really want a cigarette right now." Erin stated, her grey-green eyes still focused on the traffic.

"Have you ever even smoked a day in your life?" Rossi was incredulous.

"Nope." She admitted flatly. She gave a slight grimace. "But I've suddenly had the urge to smoke."

"Pretty sure that's the weirdest pregnancy craving ever," he commented. She hummed in agreement.

"Probably the unhealthiest, too."

"Probably."

"Typical, though," Erin mused. "I always crave exactly what I don't need."

He took a moment to study the blonde's profile. There were dark circles under her eyes, a new line at the corner of her mouth, and David had noticed that she'd been rubbing her forehead in irritation more often over the past few weeks. The pregnancy was beginning to wear on her, and he felt a wave of concern (because of course he cared, he cared because she was his coworker, because she was a human being, because she was his ally and sometimes even his friend, not because of anything else, at least that's what he told himself).

"You should go back to the hotel and get some rest," he suggested quietly.

She nodded, and that's when he knew that she must really be tired—she hardly ever took his advice when it came to rest; she always that said she'd sleep when the case was wrapped.

"I just need to go up and grab my things," she started to pull herself onto her feet, but his hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"I'll get it. Just wait here." He moved across the pavement quickly (much more quickly than she was capable of moving these days, she thought enviously), disappearing behind the dark tinted glass doors.

Her lips curled into a wry smile. He really could be a sweetheart, when he wanted to be. Of course, it helped that he was still trying to get back in her good graces. Guilt was a helluva motivator.

* * *

**March 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

"The lab only dusted for prints?" Spencer Reid held the piece of paper gently at its edges, holding it up to the light. He was standing at the edge of the table, at which Rossi, Blake, Hotch, Morgan, and JJ were seated.

"That's all Strauss allowed them to do," Hotch clarified. "She was afraid they might accidentally destroy it."

"Her faith in their abilities was much appreciated, I'm sure," Morgan commented, leaning back in his chair so that he, too, could peer at the paper under the light.

Hotch gave a small smile, but didn't respond.

"The paper itself is the message," Reid scrunched his face as inspected the sheet from a different angle. "It's heavy, almost as thick as cardstock, very expensive, like calligraphy paper."

"The numbers obviously have some meaning, but the real clue is the invisible ink, right?" Morgan continued, looking up at Reid for confirmation. "I mean, that's pretty specific, and our guy doesn't do anything without a reason."

"There are lots of things that can be used as invisible ink," Blake pointed out. "The problem is, if we test for one type of compound or substance, then whatever we use to detect it, could actually destroy whatever substance that the ink is actually made of."

"Our main problem is figuring out which kind of substance was used to create the message," the doctor agreed, his eyes still scanning every inch of the paper for some kind of hint. "It depends on whether the ink is developed by heat or by chemical reaction, and whether or not the ink can withstand water. You know, in World War II, the British developed a list of ten properties of what made the ideal form of invisible ink, although several of the items on the list were in direct conflict with one another. For example, one property is that it should be unreactive to iodine, and yet another property states—"

"Reid, if you could, spare us the history lesson and simply come to a conclusion," Hotch interrupted, and everyone else let out a small sigh of relief, except for Blake, who happened to be completely engrossed in Spencer's musings.

The younger man seemed unfazed by his supervisor's abrupt tone. He gave a slight shrug of his shoulder, and then sniffed the paper, "Well, I'm fairly certain we can rule out lemon juice."

"Garcia," Hotch directed his voice at the speakerphone at the center of the conference table.

"Already on it, sir," The technical analyst's voice rang out loud and clear. They could hear the rapid-fire tapping of her fingers across the keyboard in the background. "Common and not-so-common sources of invisible ink include: cola, honey, various fruit juices, vinegar, bodily fluids—wow, that's disturbing—various sulfates and chlorides—"

"Bodily fluids?" Hotch's dark eyes flicked over to Reid.

"Seriously, that's what you got out of that whole list?" Garcia was incredulous. "So like a man."

"Blood." The doctor suddenly looked at the paper again.

"Blood?" Morgan was confused. Blood wouldn't dry invisible, or else their job would've been a lot harder.

"Blood serum—plasma has a clear, light-yellow tint," Reid was talking quickly now, his hands fluttering as he became excited with his discovery. "The plasma could be purified enough to remove all tint, basically made into a serum, which would write and dry clear, like lemon juice. Heat brings it out as well—if you were to hold this to a high-watt bulb or near an open heat source, or even run a clothes iron over it, the serum would show up, almost like it did with the UV light."

He gently slipped the paper back into the clear plastic evidence bag that the lab had delivered it in. "Plasma doesn't contain DNA, but we can use it to determine blood type. I would be willing to bet good money that our guy used one of the victim's blood to write this message."

"So, we're looking for a highly-skilled piquerist or vampirist," David Rossi surmised, speaking for the first time.

"More than just highly-skilled," JJ corrected. "Someone with the tools and resources to separate plasma from human blood."

"Garcia," Hotch leaned in to the speaker phone again.

"Looking for former cases involving piquerists and/or vampirists," she answered before he could even formulate the question. "Back in a flash, my loves."

The line clicked. By now, Spencer had already dashed off, clutching his paper as if it were a Golden Ticket.

"We still don't know what the numbers mean," Blake pointed out. She reached across the table for the photo that Strauss had given Hotch the night before, the one with the numbers glowing underneath the UV light.

Morgan leaned over, closing the gap between their two chairs, where Spencer had been standing. He frowned, trying to make some sense of the seemingly random rows of numbers. "They could be anything—dates, phone numbers, times…"

At the last word, JJ suddenly looked down at her phone, cursing under her breath, "Speaking of time, I've got a conference call with the chief of police in Tampa in a few minutes."

She stood, gathering up a stack of folders that seemed to be part of her daily costume.

"I've got a consult with NYPD in half an hour," Hotch also rose to his feet, glancing at the other agents. "Let's reconvene at 2pm."

The others nodded in agreement as their unit chief exited the room. Blake and Morgan returned their attention to the photo, but Rossi followed JJ back into the bullpen.

"Oh, shit," the blonde muttered, glancing at one of her folders. "This one is supposed to go back to Strauss before lunch."

"I can take it to her," Rossi offered, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Really?" Her blue eyes locked onto his, the hope unmistakable.

"Sure. I've got the time, and you need to get to your conference call." He gave a slight shrug, holding out his hand for the folder, which she gratefully gave to him.

"Thanks, Rossi," she grinned over her shoulder as she power-walked down the hall. "I owe ya one."

He simply nodded in agreement, his gaze falling to the brown legal folder in his hands. She had no idea that in reality, she was the one doing him a favor.

* * *

Erin's back was turned to the door as she perused her email on the computer tucked snugly in the back of her cherry-oak hutch credenza, but she could hear footsteps approaching, halting with hesitation, shifting with uncertainty.

"Dora, I'm your boss, not the King of Persia," Erin pointed out dryly, not even bothering to turn around. "You can enter the room without awaiting my divine permission."

"Who's Dora?"

The sound of a masculine voice took her by surprise. She turned the chair around, slightly confused to see David Rossi standing in her doorway.

"Carrington," Erin motioned towards the reception area, slowly removing her reading glasses and setting them on her desk. "Her first name is Dora."

"Like the painter?"

Erin had forgotten that he was well-versed in the art world. For some reason, it had always been hard for her to reconcile the brash, impetuous, daring, loud-mouthed Italian with the soft, contemplative, cultured man that lurked beneath the surface. David Rossi certainly was a man of many tastes.

She nodded.

"Didn't the original Dora Carrington off herself with a shotgun?" He gave a slight grimace, looking over his shoulder at the brunette, who was completely oblivious to the conversation.

"Her parents didn't seem to be bothered by that little detail," Erin replied. She shook her head—she couldn't even recount the number of jokes she'd heard about Carrington's first name ever since the emergence of a wildly popular cartoon explorer, which was why the young woman preferred to be addressed by her surname. With a wry curl of her lip, she mused, "At least I gave my children sensible names—they'll never hate me for  _that_."

It was her emphasis on the last word that caused a faint flutter of irritation within Rossi—the implication that her children could do anything less than love her, the idea that she'd somehow failed them by having a shining career while raising them, the thought that she'd been seen as anything less than amazing by her own offspring was upsetting, even if she spoke in jest. Of course, he was biased when it came to her (he always had been, in one way or another), but he knew that she'd wanted to be a good mother, though she felt her career had cost her such an accolade. She loved her children; it was evident by the soft look in her eyes every time she saw their pictures, the gentle smile when she spoke of them. He hated to think the adoration wasn't mutual. She didn't deserve that.

"I doubt they could hate you for anything," he replied softly. The flicker of doubt in her grey eyes did not slip past his scrutiny.

"Why are you here?" Inwardly, she cringed at how harsh she sounded.

"JJ was in a rush, so I volunteered as delivery boy," he held up the folder in explanation before tossing it lightly on her desk.

"Working on your scout badges, Agent Rossi?" She raised a questioning eyebrow, the corners of her mouth twitching into the faintest of smirks.

"If it gives me the chance to exchange witty banner with a beautiful broad," he responded, leaning on the edge of her desk and taking a secret delight in the fact that she actually didn't shift away. "Then I'm all in."

Her eyes flickered past his shoulder, to the open door and the receptionist's desk. Typical Erin, worrying about appearances.

She licked her lips nervously, "David, this really isn't the appropriate time."

"Which makes it the perfect time," he retorted in a low tone.

"You are incorrigible." Her words were lessened by the affection that crept into them, despite her best efforts.

He smiled at the statement before suddenly sobering. "How are you, Erin?"

Her eyes met his, wide and slightly surprised by the change in conversation.

"I-I'm fine," her hand immediately went to her necklace, playing with the ruby bauble that nestled just below the dip in her collarbone.

"We haven't spoken in a while," he reminded her, and she detected the slightest hint of sorrow in his voice.

"We spoke last night," she replied lamely, because she knew that last night was the first time they'd been alone in the same room for months.

"We don't even fight anymore," he shook his head with a wry grin. There was a twinkle in his dark eyes, "Is it sad that I miss fighting with you?"

She smiled softly at the question, a faint blush searing across her cheeks. She understood the meaning behind his words—fighting was their main form of communication, their chance to truly use their teeth and wit and fire against their worthiest adversary, their native ritual in the strange land of their relationship. It was who they were, who they would always be, regardless of the love and laughter and light in-between. The big fights were what broke them apart so that they could mend together again, becoming something new yet somehow familiar, something stronger though equally fragile, something closer to the people they really were and the things they really felt. The smaller spats were what kept them on their toes, kept the blood pulsing and the tension sizzling, somehow increasing their mutual affection.

"That is quite sad, Agent Rossi," her tone belied her words, and he felt that she reciprocated his sadness. She leaned forward (barely, just enough so he'd notice, not enough so that he could interpret it as a definite move), a twinkle in her eye as her voice dipped even lower, "In some circles, people would label you a raging masochist."

Of course, that was a phrase he'd used to describe her many times over the past two decades, and her use of the term made him smile in recollection.

"Besides," she sat back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. "You brought this on yourself, David."

He looked at her in confusion. She continued evenly, her eyes never leaving his, "You were the one who started treating me differently—you started acting like I was some fragile bird with a broken wing, after everything that happened."

She didn't specify what  _everything that happened_ was, but he knew, and he also knew that she was right—after that tear-filled day last May, he had treated her differently, had turned her into some delicate creature that suddenly couldn't withstand the severity of their former battles. He hadn't even realized that he'd done it; it was just a natural progression into the new stage of their strange, tangled relationship—now that the emotions were out in the open, the gloves could come off and a truce could begin, because the frustration and deprivation and the denial had ended.

And that's when he saw it—the hurt in her eyes. Hurt that he saw her as something so weak, hurt that he'd stopped treating her as he always did, hurt for being locked out, for being seen as  _less than_ , for being denied the comfort of acting as they always had around one another.

A lot had changed in the past year. Perhaps some things shouldn't change, though. Perhaps some aspects of their relationship were imperfectly perfect. After all, it was their fighting spirits that had started them down this twisting, turning path…what if that really was the thing that made it work?

He was very quiet as he considered these things, and his silence sat like a stone in Erin's stomach. She was not good with words, but any words would be better than this. She looked down at her hands, folded neatly atop her desk.

"I thought that—perhaps…maybe it meant—maybe you were treating me differently because—"

"Because I didn't love you anymore?"

Her eyes snapped up at the words, locking onto his. The hurt in those grey-green orbs was replaced by something that stabbed at David's heart—fear.

Because she had really believed that he'd finally given up on her. After all, isn't that what Paul had done? Paul Strauss was a much more dependable and stable man that David Rossi could ever hope to be—what chance could Rossi stand against her drunken, broken, completely damaged self, if Paul hadn't been able to?

Surprisingly, David wasn't hurt by her lack of faith in him. He was too busy hating Paul Strauss for creating such feelings doubt and unworthiness in this woman who was to David seemingly indestructible.

She blinked, swallowed, tried to reign in her hopeless heart, which had skidded and thudded wildly at the word  _love_. Forcing her eyes to remain on his, she whispered, "You…you were suddenly acting differently, so I thought…I thought you were trying to let me down easily. To… _disengage_."

"I see." He replied softly. Now it was his turn to glance down at Erin's hands, which were perfectly still. He knew that he'd said too much, that he shouldn't have used the fateful L word, but it was true and he no longer felt the need to lie to himself, or to her—he did love her, he had loved her for quite some time now, and he was actually scared at the realization that he'd loved her longer than he'd loved any other woman. He told himself that he would refrain from any more professions of love eternal (at least for now), but she still needed to understand that he wasn't going anywhere.

His hand moved forward, the tip of his index finger lightly brushing over the ridges of her knuckles. "I don't think I could ever give up on you, Erin, even if I wanted to."

He felt the rush of breath that she'd been holding as she'd waited for his reply, watched with soft wonderment as that pale hand slowly rotated, her index finger moving to touch his own, her palm opening and welcoming the warmth of his fingertips. His hand moved forward, his fingers wrapping around her wrist as his thumb gently caressed the pulse point which suddenly seemed warmer. She mimicked his movement, her fingers wrapping around his wrist, caressing whatever skin they could reach.

They both stayed in that moment, eyes transfixed on the mating and melding of their hands, reveling in the simple pleasure of touching each other's skin, feeling that familiar connection rekindle and repair itself, relishing the knowledge that they were somehow resetting and regrouping, infatuated with the realization that they were turning something so mundane into an almost sacred ritual.

Perhaps that was what love was, Erin felt struck with sudden clarity. For so many years, she'd thought that she was incapable of all-consuming passionate love, but maybe it wasn't her capacity that was the problem—maybe it was her definition. In all honestly, most of the time she would not classify her feelings towards David Rossi as anything even remotely resembling love, but she could not deny the fact that he always had the ability to melt her bones with a single touch, to enflame her soul with a single glance, and then meld them all back together with the surprising softness of his words. And though this moment (this beautiful, golden, gentle, haloed moment) was far from passionate, it was all-consuming, entrancing and hypnotic, completely unlike anything she'd ever experienced before, and she wanted nothing more than to capture it, to live inside whatever strange world they were weaving around them, to hide here, safe and content, for the rest of her days.

Happiness blossomed inside her chest like the dawning of the sun as she realized that she wasn't too damaged or incapable of feeling such things. For most of her life, she'd simply assumed that because she didn't feel this way with Paul (who was so kind and sweet and loving and absolutely the type of man about which she should feel this way), that she was somehow emotionally defective, as if her brain couldn't comprehend such feelings. By the time David Rossi had waltzed into her life, she'd convinced herself that she wasn't capable of passion—when her first real interactions to him had been so visceral, she'd assumed that the strange pulsing in her veins was disgust, not attraction.

Now she was beyond mere attraction. Far beyond. You had to be a love-struck idiot to be completely enthralled and content with the simple touch of man's hand on your wrist. Erin just smiled as she silently acknowledged that she must be, in fact, a love-struck idiot.


	5. Gauntlets and Battle Scars

_ "Battle is the most magnificent competition in which a human being can indulge. It brings out all that is best; it removes all that is base." _

_ ~George S. Patton.   
_

* * *

**March 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

David Rossi decidedly had a pep in his step.

Derek Morgan sat back, taking a moment to observe his team member as he practically skipped (or at least was as close to skipping as Rossi could ever be) past the bullpen. The younger agent set his pen down on his desk, looking around at his coworkers to see if anyone else had witnessed what was surely a sign of the impending Apocalypse. As usual, Blake was too far buried in her own work to notice the world was spinning; Reid was muttering to himself as he rummaged through the drawers of his desk; Hotch was safely ensconced in his own office, still deep in conversation with the NYPD, consulting on a case of serial rapes that had occurred over the last seven months.

Surely he had imagined it. Either that or someone had slipped a little something extra into Dave's coffee this morning. Both were equally plausible theories.

Several hours later, when the team reconvened in the conference room, Derek was certain that he'd simply made the whole thing up, because the older man was back in usual humor.

His foul mood was further darkened when Chief Strauss appeared in the doorway, pushing into the room with her usual air of authority (which Morgan now knew was mainly bravado, masking a deep-set fear of failure).

"What have we got so far?" She moved smoothly around the table, standing at the head, where Penelope was seated with her laptop.

"So glad that you could grace us with your presence," Rossi commented with barely-concealed distaste.

Her steely gaze probably would have killed a lesser man.  _Don't mess with me. Not today._

She turned her attention to Hotch, who, as usual, wore an expression of cool detachment. He answered her question, "The lab is testing the ink for blood type. Reid thinks it's made of blood serum. Garcia."

"Right," the brightly-arrayed technical analyst began pulling up photos on her laptop, which appeared on the projection screen behind her. "Here are the former cases handled by the BAU involving piquerists and vampirists, plus every case that has a connection to Cleveland, and I've gotta say, it's a creepily long list."

"And when will we get the results back from the lab?" The section chief looked at Dr. Reid.

"They've already confirmed that it's definitely a bodily fluid; they have a few more tests to run to see if it's plasma and to determine blood type, if there's enough to provide a sample—we should know within the next few hours," he replied.

Erin's expression became worried, "These tests, they won't damage the paper or the message, will they?"

"Probably not. But even if they do, we have the photo and I looked at the paper under UV light before testing began." Reid tapped his temple, silently referencing his eidetic memory.

"Oh, of course," Erin nodded.

"We still have no idea what the numbers mean," Blake admitted, casting a regretful glance at Morgan, who'd spent the better part of the day scrolling old cases with her, looking for numeric clues.

"It isn't some kind of code?" Erin asked.

"If it were, then the UNSUB would have included a key," Reid informed her.

"It's a set of numbers that he thinks we should already know," Aaron added.

"Except we don't," his supervisor clarified.

"Not yet," Blake sat up a little straighter, her posture suggesting that she was becoming defensive over Strauss' inferred lack of faith.

"We could send a copy to the cyber division," Erin suggested, looking around the table to see if anyone else agreed. "They have software specifically designed to crack numeric codes; they might be able to help us."

Hotch seemed to be considering her idea, so she didn't push it any further, choosing instead to switch gears, "Your at-home surveillance teams have been informed that there has been a new development, and they will be increasingly vigilant."

This earned her a groan from Rossi.

"It is for your own protection," she said slowly, each word weighted with a silent command that would brook no refusals. Straightening her shoulders, she added quickly, "I've also put in a request to the director that you be assigned protective details whenever you are not in the building or in the field."

"So not only do we have black unmarked SUVs parked outside our houses, now we'll be shadowed everywhere we go?" Rossi's brows shot up in disbelief.

"If the director approves my request, then yes," Strauss clarified in her usual bureaucratic way. With a deft tug at the cuffs of her shirt, she continued, "Which brings me to my next order of business—Agent Rossi, would you join me in your office?"

She didn't even bother to see if he had agreed to her request as she brushed past the other agents, who all exchanged worried looks.

Penelope's large Bambi eyes followed the two out the door, "Oh, he's in the soup."

Aaron Hotchner turned back to the team—he'd seen the dark look in Strauss' eye, one that he'd witnessed many times, especially when it came to Dave Rossi. "We'd best continue. Dave won't be back for quite some time."

* * *

Erin closed the door to David's office with a sharp crack, not a full slam but still loud enough to make a point. She waited a full beat before turning to face him.

"You have been dismissing your surveillance detail."

"I see we aren't wasting time with pleasantries." He commented dryly, leaning back on the edge of his desk and crossing his arms over his chest.

"They are being paid to protect you." She wasn't deterred by his snarky tone.

"Well, apparently they aren't being paid enough if I can talk them into leaving me alone."

"It has nothing to do with money," she practically spat. "You've been  _bullying_  them, David."

"I have not—"

"You are a highly-decorated, well-connected agent, almost a living legend to these—"

"I'm pleased to hear you think so highly of me," he grinned mischievously.

She ignored the comment, "You are their hero, and you're using that against them. And when they don't fall at your feet in adoration, then you resort to threatening to have them fired! They're just young agents—"

"That's the problem, Erin," his voice rose, his earlier amusement suddenly evaporated. "They're a bunch of kids! We are an elite team of  _seasoned_  agents, and you have us being babysat by a bunch of fucking high-schoolers!"

"They are qualified and more than capable of doing their jobs, Agent Rossi—"

"I don't need a babysitter!" He shot back.

Despite her anger, she managed an amused smirk, "You realize that when you say that, you actually  _do_  sound like a child?"

This remark, of course, made him want to throttle her. Then he realized what was going on.

Less than four hours ago, he'd admitted to her that he missed their fights. And here she was, screaming with him in his office, goading him into a temper—it was her gift to him, a strange peace offering, a chance to regain what had been lost these past few months.

She saw the moment of recognition in his eyes, and he watched her swallow nervously, her fingernails biting into the flesh of her upper arm as she steeled herself for his reaction, her eyes silently hopeful, pleading with him to continue.

She'd offered this to him, and now it was up to him to accept or deny her gift.

So, of course, he took it with both hands.

He stepped up to her, rising to his full height, his broad shoulders almost hemming her against the bookcase, "I don't want the protective detail."

He saw the sudden flush across the skin at the opening of her blouse, felt the slight shift in her body as she further prepared for battle.

"It isn't about what you want, David," her voice was low. "You will refrain from threatening, flattering, or otherwise coercing your details into abandoning their posts. That is an order."

"And if I don't comply?"

Her mouth set into a firm line.

"That's what I thought," he grinned. He leaned further in, his tone now taunting, "There's nothing you can do about it, Erin. Your orders have no effect on me."

He couldn't resist moving closer, his chest almost touching hers as he continued, his eyes lingering on the exposed skin just above her breasts, which he didn't dare touch (not here, not in the office), which was now an enchanting blush of dark pink, "Although I dare say,  _my_  words have had an effect on  _you_. You look a bit… _piqued_."

The word rolled off his tongue so sensually that Erin actually felt her chest tighten. Her eyelids fluttered and she suddenly realized that she was in no shape to battle this man, not so soon after he'd caressed her so tenderly in her office, not after he'd calmed her fears and awakened the stirrings of emotion within her.

Judging from the cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his handsome face, he also knew that she was hopelessly drowning in another fiery emotion besides anger.  _Bastard_.

"So you've missed our fights, too," he mused aloud, his eyes becoming darker as he looked into hers. His voice became softer, though it held a patronizing tone that made Erin's jaw tighten with anger. "I think it's sweet that you found an excuse to play with me."

"It wasn't an excuse," she finally found her tongue again—he'd pushed her back from the edge with the last comment, and she gathered her wits as she calmly stated, "You really do need to stop dismissing your security detail."

"Erin," he gave a growl of irritation. He didn't finish the sentence, but she got the message, loud and clear.

She slipped past him, moving towards the door once more.

"Don't fight this, David," she warned. Then she gave him a reprimanding shake of her head as she sighed, "Threatening to have them fired? That's a low blow."

Opening the door, the she threw her last volley over her shoulder, "Even for  _you_."

His mind immediately jumped to a hundred retorts that he could make about low blows—professional and otherwise—but of course, she was already gone, and he certainly wasn't going to bellow after her (there was a time when he would have, but they both knew that he was long past that now). She'd known this, had known that her exit would cut him off at the knees, denying him the satisfaction of having the last word.

_She's back_. He suddenly grinned at the realization. She'd sought him out, thrown down her gauntlet, established that she was back in the game. That morning they'd shared a sweet moment in her office, and though it was lovely and tender, it was nothing compared to the blonde hurricane that had blown through his door that afternoon, all flashing eyes and fiery tongue—that was the woman who'd slipped under his skin and stolen his soul so many years ago, the one he'd happily spend his life fighting. His heart soared at the implications of her actions, and he prayed to every saint that he could think of,  _Please, please let it be so_.

* * *

By the time Erin had reached her office, her pulse and her breathing were back in check. She had to agree with David—she did miss their fights, the adrenaline rush, the revving of her fight-or-flight reflex (she always chose fight, always with him), the rapid-fire retorts, the push to be on her feet and quick with her wit. Of course, she also couldn't deny the warmth deep in the pit of her stomach, crawling up the caverns of her chest, bleeding all the way up to her cheeks—intensified by the supreme knowledge of exactly what her anger did to him, knowing what feelings, what desires she stirred within him, simply by yelling at him.

Oh, it was unhealthy. Psychotic, even. Masochistic, sadistic, twisted, bad—pure and simple. But as he had pointed out that morning, it was part of who they were (to each other, for each other, with each other). It was surely a bad thing, but then again, life with Paul would have been classified as a "good thing", and look how that had turned out—she'd felt dead and damaged and flat, none of which she felt in the presence of David Rossi. Regardless of what emotion he inspired in her, Erin always felt vividly, voraciously alive when she was near him.

Still, it couldn't be good. Nothing this full of fire and fangs and blood could be good.

And yet, the same thought from earlier that day popped into her head again:  _perhaps this is what love is._  She could push him away and he'd always pop back up, and vice versa; they could be their horribly imperfect true selves around one another without fear of judgment or losing the love of the other. In fact, if she was truly honest, she would say that it was the darker, truer side of each other that they loved the most—it was the flame for their respective moths, drawing them in like a siren song, a heart's cry, a strange pull of predestination.

She was certain that they were both very sick. Secretly, she hoped they were never cured.

Another voice in her head whispered the inevitable:  _it can't always be like this_. Sadly, she knew this was true—eventually, she was going to have to open up old scars and hidden truths, and she felt a quiver of fear as she realized that David's devotion might not stand the test. Sure, he'd stuck beside her alcoholism and her months of silence, had fought and loved her through the bloody battles for years, but this was different. This was unforgiveable.

She only hoped that he would be able to pardon the unpardonable, but her hope did not dispel the unease rising within. She gave her head a curt shake, physically tossing those dark thoughts out of her mind. She didn't want to think about it, not yet, not when they were just coming back together again. The truth had lain dormant for almost two decades. There wasn't any need to rush it now. Of course, deep down, she knew that this made her a coward of the worst kind, but that was something she'd known for many years.

* * *

The next day, the request had been approved and a protective detail was established for each member of the team. Exactly one week later, Strauss was barreling through the bullpen, the ends of her dark byzantium wrap cardigan billowing behind her like an ominous thunderhead, leaving terror and trepidation in her wake.

Spencer Reid subconsciously pushed his chair further back, further away from the blonde face of death and destruction, pulling his notepad closer to his chest like a shield. Blake's large eyes followed the blonde, her mouth pressed into a thin line as she recognized the expression on her superior's face. It had been many years since she'd seen that hellish look in Erin Strauss' eyes, but gods, she certainly hadn't missed it.

Derek Morgan slowly moved his chair closer to the other two agents, his voice low, his eyes still locked on Strauss' back, "This does not look good."

Hotch and Rossi were in Hotch's office, going over some files for a consult in Albuquerque when Strauss blew into the room without any warning, her voice barely registering above a growl as she tried (and failed) to contain the anger seeping from every pore of her being.

"What. The.  _Fuck_."

"Erin," Hotch rose to his feet, shocked by the sight that met his eyes. Ages ago, when he was still just a young agent, he'd had the misfortune of seeing what Rossi called Really Angry Erin, and he feared what horrific event had unleashed this side of her after so many years of lying dormant.

"Agent Hotchner," her tone was a warning, but David didn't seem to be getting the message, because he was still reclined nonchalantly in his chair, observing her as if she was nothing more than a sparrow hopping along on the sidewalk as he enjoyed a day in the park. She finished her earlier thought, "What the fuck were you thinking, David?"

"Erin—"

"Don't worry, I can answer that one for you—you  _weren't_  thinking! Because if you were, you would know what complete  _idiocy_ — _"_

"Perhaps you should continue this conversation elsewhere. In private." Aaron Hotchner interjected quickly.

David cast a languorous glance down into the bullpen, where he could see the others huddled. "I think it's a bit too late for that, Aaron. I'm sure our esteemed section chief made quite a production on her way over."

Erin's eyes remained locked on David's, although she spoke to Aaron, "Agent Hotchner, please stay. I believe I'm going to need a witness—"

"I guess that means you're not going to murder me," David quipped, and it really didn't help the situation, because when Erin stepped forward, her fingers taunt and curved like talons, Hotch truly believed that she might kill David then and there.

"A witness for what?" Aaron tried to save his friend.

It worked, because Erin released the breath she'd been holding and looked at him for the first time since she'd barged into his office. "Agent Rossi has repeatedly refused the security detail at his home, going so far as to bribe and threaten the agents charged with his safety—actions which I warned him last week could have serious repercussions—and this morning, I have received reports that he has been  _intentionally_  ditching his protection detail."

"Look, I'm just an old man," he held up his hands, "Is it my fault that they assigned me cadets that couldn't keep up in a super market?"

"They are all highly trained agents with over five years' field experience each," Erin shot back vehemently. "And I do not like the implication that I or the director would choose anything less than the best to protect our most valuable team—"

"I can't help what you  _infer_ , Erin," David retorted haughtily. "Though I must add, it really wasn't that hard to lose them—"

"This cavalier attitude towards your own personal safety—"

"May I point out that using both 'own' and 'personal' is a bit redundant, Erin. You're an English lit major, you should know better—"

" _American_  lit!" Erin's voice reached an octave that Hotch had never heard before. She leaned forward, dangerously close to David's still-calm face, her voice becoming low and deadly again, "And don't you dare try to change the subject, Agent Rossi. You aren't just jeopardizing your own well-being, but also the safety and sanity of your fellow team members—"

"She's right," Hotchner agreed, crossing his arms over his chest as he moved around his desk to stand behind her, figuratively and literally. His tone was softer, more uncertain, "Why would you do something like that, Dave?"

Erin answered before he could, "Because he is a selfish, petulant, narcissistic—"

"Oh, here we go again," David rolled his eyes, for the first time showing some form of irritation.

Down the in the bullpen, Jennifer Jareau entered with a fresh cup of coffee, her ears immediately picking up the muffled sounds of dispute as she rounded the corner to find Blake, Reid, and Morgan staring at the now-closed door of Hotch's office.

"What's going on?" She asked, slightly awed as she realized that David Rossi was, in fact, yelling like she'd never seen him yell before. There was a movement, and she saw Erin Strauss step forward, her voice equally explosive. Hotch was behind her, but by now, he'd backed up and was practically plastered across the interior window.

"Apparently Rossi has been shirking his security detail," Spencer answered, his eyes still trained on the drama unfolding.

"The way those two carry on, you'd think Strauss wouldn't mind letting him get killed." JJ commented.

"Except it would be a mark on her picture-perfect record," Blake pointed out, and the others were kind enough to ignore the venom seeping into her tone.

The door opened, and the voices seemed to amplify as Aaron slipped out, closing the door behind him. He gave a weary look to the others as he joined them.

"Do you think they even notice that you're gone?" Derek asked dryly.

Hotch shook his head, "I doubt it. Those two could go on for days."

"They are evenly matched," Blake agreed. She remembered her early days in the Bureau, "Their fights were the stuff of legend back in the day."

Hotch nodded. Everyone, even the people in the little godforsaken field offices in Eastjesusnowhere, had heard about their battles during the late 80s and early 90s, and common phrases had been "to pull a Rossi", which meant to incur and goad the wrath of a fellow agent, and "to go Strauss on your ass", which meant blowing up on a fellow agent in epic proportions. Of course, the two had finally simmered down by the mid-90s and the phrases and water-cooler stories had died out as well, which meant the younger agents had never heard the tales.

"How long did the longest one last?" Reid asked curiously, still focusing on the body language of the two individuals, who were currently unaware that they were being observed by the rest of the BAU and everyone else within a 200 foot radius who'd overheard the ruckus, like two beta fish battling it out in a fishbowl, oblivious to their audience.

Blake was thoughtful for a moment before answering decisively, "New York. Two full days of yelling, then a few weeks of freezing each other out."

"Jesus," Morgan whispered. "I bet that was one for the books."

The corner of Blake's mouth curled into a humorless smirk, "Oh trust me, it was."

"That wasn't the worst," Hotch spoke quietly, and everyone turned to him in surprise—it wasn't usually his style to repeat office gossip. His dark eyes remained focused on the two figures in his office (if it came to blows, he'd have to get Morgan to help him break it up).

"Then what was the worst?" JJ asked slowly, still shocked that Hotch was even allowing this conversation to continue, much less contributing to it.

"The day Strauss got promoted to Section Chief."

* * *

**August 1998. Quantico, Virginia.**

David Rossi scrubbed his face with his hand, pacing around his small cramped office, "So you're going to take it?"

"Of course I'm going to take it," Erin whirled around, growling in frustration. "I'd be a damn fool not to."

She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the door with a petulant expression. Of course, it had been too much to expect that David would actually be happy for her (despite the fact that she'd busted her ass for years, clawing her way to the top), but she hadn't expected to see him so  _angry_.

"I can't believe it," he muttered, shaking his head as he continued his pacing. He'd always seemed cat-like to Erin, and right now, he reminded her of a caged tiger.

"Is it so hard to believe that I've worked long enough and hard enough to deserve this promotion?" Her voice was neutral, though he knew her well enough to know that it took every ounce of self-control she had to keep the emotion from her tone.

"There are others who have worked longer and harder," he shot back, not even looking at her (that was what hurt the most, the fact that he couldn't even stand the sight of her right now).

"You mean yourself," she stated flatly.

"I do," he admitted. He threw his hand out towards the rest of the basement office that housed the BAU, "And there are plenty of others, too—Jason Gideon, Mark Smith, Alan Arkaday—"

"My, I didn't realize so many people were so much better qualified than I am," she cut him off, her posture becoming even more rigid. She'd never been good at accepting criticism, but being called out as completely inadequate hit all kinds of emotional triggers. She had the sinking feeling that this was going to be their ugliest brawl yet. Still, that didn't stop her from pushing his buttons (because it was justified, because it was retaliation for his own egregious button-pushing against her), "Perhaps I should mention those names to the people who spent  _months_  vetting candidates for the position. I'm sure they just accidentally missed all the qualified individuals and went straight to me. Because, you know, I'm such fun at parties and a real Gal Friday, and that's what you really need in a section chief."

She'd come here, to his office, to tell him about the promotion in-person, before he read it in some email or overheard it at the water-cooler. He'd only been back at Quantico for a few months, and they hadn't really spoken (in fact, she'd studiously avoided him, because she feared the truth of what happened five years ago in Seattle was still plainly written on her face), but he deserved to be told about this quietly, to be given the chance to process the information without having to do so in a public setting.

"You should've declined, Erin. You know you should have."

His tone sent anger boiling through every fiber of her being. "Why? So  _you_  could accept the position?"

He stopped and looked at her, his face filled with absolute contempt.

"Would you have turned it down?" She continued.

"Of course not," he shot back, returning to his pacing as he waved away the question. "But then again, I'm actually  _qualified_."

"No one's saying you're not, David," she stepped forward, her hands moving to her hips. "But that doesn't mean you're  _suited_  to the position."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He growled.

She motioned to him, "Well, I would say this is a prime example of why you aren't exactly management material. You have a temper that would put a two-year-old to shame, you're hot-headed and you jump to conclusions, you have a history of breaking protocol and I'm sure all those rules you broke on fraternization aren't helping—"

"Spare me the laundry list of sins,  _Erin_ ," he spat her name, as if it were a loathsome epithet.

"This wasn't my decision to make, David," she suddenly sounded very tired. "I had nothing to do with this. You know that."

"Are you sure about that?" He stopped pacing again, turning to her. She couldn't read his expression, but she certainly didn't like the sudden clamoring in her veins that his dark eyes inspired in her.

"What is that supposed to mean?" She kept her voice low.

"Did your daddy pull a few strings with the director?" He demanded, stepping forward angrily. "Or did you  _pull_  someone else's?"

There it was—the insidious tone behind the word  _pull_ , implying something else, something that required more push than pull. Erin's arm automatically wound up, throwing all of her force towards that hatefully smug face. However, she checked herself mid-swing and whirled to the side, slamming her open palm into the metal filing cabinet standing next to them.

The nerve endings in her hand registered the pain immediately, and she was grateful that she'd at least been cognizant enough not to hit the metal object with a closed fist—broken knuckles were not on her wish list.

All of these thoughts happened in mere milliseconds, and her pain did not compare to the overwhelming anger that filled her entire being.

"How. Dare. You." Her voice was low, threatening and dangerous, like the ominous rumble of distant thunder. She took a step forward, her back and shoulders ramrod-straight to keep herself from shaking in rage.

Ah, so here was Really Angry Erin. Normally, this was the point at which David would retreat, because he was smart enough to recognize the violence that was absolutely radiating off the woman in waves. But this was not one of their normal fights.

"You haven't answered the question, kitten," he leaned in, his face just inches from hers, taunting her to take another swing at him.

It was the use of that old nickname that shattered her heart (he'd called her that years ago, on their first case together, and it had infuriated her, but even then, it was a jest, and now it was something darker, something hateful, something vile, said in such a tone that held all his disgust and disdain for her). He'd taken a moment from their private history and turned it into a weapon against her, and like all weapons made of emotion and memory, it hit its mark. Her eyelids fluttered, her lip quivered and he suddenly realized that she was fighting back tears. She blinked, swallowed, took a deep breath before answering, her tone filled with hatred.

"You are one low son of a bitch, David Rossi."

Despite the prick in his heart at the sight of her tears, he chose anger, pushing his own voice a notch higher as he repeated, "Answer the question."

"I will not," she retorted stolidly. Her own anger was rebuilding itself as well, "How can you even think—"

"Because I know from personal experience—"

"You bastard!" She was using the full force of her lungs now, her words ripping from her throat with a vehemence that bespoke death and destruction. She slammed the metal cabinet again, with both hands, giving out a cry of frustration, "That was different and you know it!"

"I don't think I know anything when it comes to you," he shot back. "For one, I would have thought that you'd have to good sense to decline a job that you couldn't handle—"

"Couldn't handle? What do you mean 'a job that I couldn't handle'?"

"I mean just that, Erin. You aren't the type—"

"You are worse that Goodwin!" She bellowed, and that arrow hit its mark. David's nostrils flared and his eyes darkened even more.

"Don't you dare play that card with me, Erin Strauss—"

"You have always been, and will always be an egotistical, self-centered, self-righteous, pompous ass—"

"That's quite rich, coming from the privileged Daddy's girl with a persecution complex that makes—"

"A Daddy's girl?!"

"Oh, c'mon, how else do you think you got here in the first place? The brass knew it'd piss your father off to have his little pride and joy heading up the FBI—it's a political move—"

"First you accuse my father of pulling strings to get me this position; now you're saying they promoted me to piss him off—pick one conspiracy theory and stick with it, David. I know that might be hard to do, seeing as you've never stuck with anything—"

"I wasn't the one who always left first!"

It was that statement, trumpeted from David's angry lips, which stopped Erin in her tracks.

"We don't talk about that," she said breathlessly, stunned by his words. She stepped back, holding her hands up, as if to ward him off, "We  _never_  talk about that."

"That's right, Erin, just run away—it's what you do best," he spat, taking another step towards her. She moved away quickly, stumbling against the door. Her hands were trembling and David was certain that if she didn't have her knees locked right now, she'd melt onto the floor. He felt disgusted with himself, knowing that his words and actions were the reason this woman looked at him with fear—looked at him the way a victim would look at an UNSUB, the way innocent people looked at monsters. He also hated himself for how petty, how weak, how  _needy_  he sounded, bringing up something from what seemed like another lifetime—emotions from flings that had never supposedly happened, things that he'd promised never to speak of. He'd broken his promise to Erin, and he'd broken a rule of battle between them. Worse than any of those things, he also had the sneaking suspicion that he'd broken her heart with his harsh words, and that filled him with a self-loathing beyond compare.

The room became very quiet, and very sorrowful.

He turned away from her. She looked down at the floor, squeezing her eyes shut as she steadied her breathing. She didn't look at him as she softly whispered, "I didn't choose this, David."

His voice was equally soft, but it still held a sour anger, "But you didn't refuse it, either, Erin."

They weren't talking about the job anymore. The realization felt like a stone in Erin's stomach. She gingerly reached up, smoothed her blonde locks, straightened her skirt and adjusted her blouse. Then she quietly opened the door and walked away.

She was leaving, and he knew that whatever had happened between them in this tiny claustrophobic office would forever change them. The realization hit him like a two-ton truck, and he suddenly wanted to scream, to rush after her, to do something,  _anything_  to make her turn back around. He turned, quickly grabbing the edge of the filing cabinet and throwing it forward in one fluid motion. The crash echoed through the office, causing Erin to jump at the sound. But she didn't stop walking, and she didn't look back. David stood there, his chest heaving with anger and exertion and something else (something he didn't quite want to describe or understand). He watched her walk out of the office and to the elevators. She never looked back.

* * *

The next day, SSA David Rossi submitted his application for early retirement from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Erin Strauss overheard someone talking about it at the water-cooler. Her heart ached at the realization that she no longer warranted the courtesy of being told in-person.

Four weeks later, she unpacked the last box in her new office as Section Chief, gingerly removing the photo frames and setting them on her desk. There was one that made her pause, a snapshot from the retirement party for their mutual friend and colleague Rutherford "Ruthie" Golden, with her and David and Ruthie and a few other friends smiling happily (and perhaps slightly drunkenly) at the camera. It was one of the few times in which she'd truly felt like she belonged with that group of people, and the photo always made her smile. But today, it only brought tears as she realized that dark-haired man standing next to her in the picture had left her life for the last time—and like so many times before, he'd never even said goodbye.

It was better this way. There was too much history between them, too many secrets, too much baggage. She'd made her bed (literally and figuratively), and now she had to spend the rest of her life in it. She accepted her penance, like the good masochist that she was. Maybe this was finally over. Maybe she had finally purged the last ounce of whatever drug David Rossi was from her system. Maybe now she could truly commit to loving Paul and taking care of the family and the life that they'd built together, despite her many faults and failings. Every cloud had a silver lining, and she'd take this one—she'd take it and she'd make it work, because that was what she did. That was what she did, because there wasn't anything else she could do. The web was spun, the truth caught and wrapped up in a neat little package, cleverly disguised from prying eyes, and now she simply had to play along.

She had brought this on herself, she knew that. When he'd returned to Quantico, she'd avoided him—he didn't understand and she certainly couldn't tell him why. There were several times that she almost broke down and told him the truth, but the fear of his reaction overwhelmed her. Now she realized that her instincts had been protecting her, because after all the ugliness that occurred over her promotion, they had reached a new chasm that couldn't be crossed. With a decisive nod of her head, Erin dropped the photo frame in the waste bin, effectively tossing away the last piece of photographic evidence from their time together. Everything between them was dead and gone, and so Erin did exactly what she did the last time she saw David Rossi—she kept moving forward, and she never looked back.


	6. Consequences

_"While we are free to choose our actions, we are not free to choose the consequences of our actions."_

_~Stephen R. Covey._

* * *

**March 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

Oddly enough, it was the director himself who interrupted the clash of the titans—Erin was in mid-screech when the phone on Hotch's desk rang.

There was a moment as David and Erin simply stared at one another. The phone rang again.

"Are you gonna get that?" David asked, not breaking eye contact.

With one last venomous look, she turned and picked up the receiver, barely reigning in her anger enough to answer, "Aaron Hotchner's office."

There was a slight look of chagrin on her face whenever the other voice responded—from his position just a few feet away, David could hear a deep booming voice and he knew that it was the director.

"Yes, it's me...How did you—Oh, Carrington." She shot another dark look in David's direction. "I've just been handling an issue with one of my agents...No, no, that's quite alright. I can be there...Yes, sir."

She hung up, taking a deep breath and resetting her shoulders as she slowly recollected herself. She turned back to Rossi.

"I have to brief the director on the case in Midlands," she announced rather flatly, rearranging the folds of her wrap cardigan. She stared at him for a full beat before adding, "I won't mention your antics to him, because I expect this to be that last time that we  _ever_  have to discuss this."

"Erin, I'm not—"

She stepped forward suddenly, her face just inches from his, "David Rossi, if you get yourself killed, I swear I will bring you back to life just so that I can murder you with my own bare hands."

Though her voice was low, the vehemence in her tone was undeniable. David took a step back, shocked by her actions—that was probably the closest thing to a declaration of love that Erin Strauss had ever offered, and it was actually quite touching. His anger dissipated at the realization that for her, it wasn't about breaking protocol. It was something deeper than that.

"This scares you, doesn't it?" He asked softly, his dark eyes searching her light ones for some kind of admission.

At his softness, Erin felt her own righteous indignation break. Her breath hitched, as if she were holding back a sob as she whispered, "Of course it does, you idiot."

Somehow, she made the last word sound like an endearment. David also knew that it was no small feat for Erin to admit that she was scared—he reached out, his hands gently cupping the sides of her face, "It's gonna be OK, bella."

The warmth and the weight of his hands on her face were almost too much for Erin. She closed her eyes, tilting her head further into his caress, taking another skittering breath as she fought back the tears that now flooded her eyes.

"Please," she breathed, with all the reverence and desperation of a prayer. She didn't finish her request, but he understood.

"I won't, bella. I promise."

In the bullpen, the rest of the team was still watching, although Blake and Reid were both at least pretending to do paperwork.

"Is he...is he trying to strangle her?" Penelope Garcia's voice was filled with worry. She'd appeared several minutes earlier and had witnessed the worst of the brawl. From their vantage point, all they could see was Strauss' back turned towards them, Rossi's face over her shoulder as his arms extended to her neck.

"I don't think so," Hotch replied quietly.

Spencer looked up, squinting as he took in the scene, "His body language is too relaxed. And so is hers, for that matter."

"Oh," was Penelope's only reply, and everyone suddenly felt as if they were witnessing something that they shouldn't see. Blake and Reid hurriedly returned to their papers, Hotch walked over to the coffee pot, JJ and Penelope suddenly became engrossed in the contents of the folders in Penelope's hands. The only person who remained was Derek Morgan, who simply leaned back against his desk, arms crossed over his chest as he watched Strauss' shoulders relax, deflating like a balloon, as the smallest of smiles graced Rossi's lips.

"Huh." He gave a wry grin. "Who'd have thought it?"

* * *

It was 45 minutes later, in the middle of her briefing with the director, that Erin Strauss decided that she could not make amends to David Rossi—at least not now, not while the Replicator was still out there. His mind needed to be free from distraction, free from the angst that her revelation would certainly bring, and if that meant keeping her secret for a little while longer, then so be it.

Of course, she'd prefer to keep that secret for the rest of her life, if it wouldn't cause her so much grief. But again, she remembered that it was the reason that she was where she was now—a washed-up booze hound with a broken marriage and a psyche that would keep Freud entertained for centuries.

There was also the fact that things were so lovely and tender between them, and she knew that it would all be ripped away by her confession, and she dreaded the moment that she saw the truth in David's eyes—the moment she watched the spark die out and witnessed the complete annihilation of the things they had built together over 28 years of knowing and fighting and loving.

She tried to reign in her feelings, pulling herself back into the Ice Queen of Quantico armor that she'd crafted so many years ago, which she wore so well. So this might not last. So what? It wasn't the first time that she'd been faced with the possibility of losing David, and each time, she'd survived, because that's what she did—she endured. It was her greatest strength.

If this wasn't going to last, then she sure as hell was going to make it count for all that it was worth. Of course, she thought sadly, 'making it count for all it's worth' was what got her into this mess in the first place.

* * *

**September 1993. Seattle, Washington.**

If Erin Strauss were to create a diagram of how the past four days had spiraled into their current state, she would, of course, start with her first night in Seattle. Agreeing to go to dinner with David Rossi was a bad idea. However, agreeing to take him to dinner the following night to repay his kindness was an even worse error in judgment. Meeting him for farewell drinks the third night was a horrible, horrible lapse in sanity. Each night was filled with warm smiles and flirty comments and accidental brushes and soft moments and all the things that just danced along the edges of the unspoken boundary.

But none of it compared to the colossal leave of absence taken by her morals, judgment, and sanity that occurred directly after leaving the bar.

She wished that she could blame her actions on being drunk, but the truth was that she'd only had three drinks—enough to make her giggly and relaxed, but not enough to inhibit her judgment. David had only one, in toast to her, and had refrained from any more, since he was driving.

The cool night air greeted them as they left the bar. As they walked across the uneven pavement of the parking lot, Erin regaled him with a tale of some misadventure that had happened earlier that day—she had been in a fine mood all evening; they'd both laughed so hard that they cried over various old jokes and new stories—and David kept his hand gently on the small of her back, as if he feared she might fall.

He guided her to the passenger side, reaching forward to open the car door. She leaned back against the car, turning her face to the moon.

"I'm gonna miss this," she admitted softly, suddenly somber.

He followed her gaze up to the bright orb. "I'm pretty sure they have the exact same moon in D.C."

It was a joke, but she didn't laugh. She simply bit her bottom lip, shaking her head. "No, not the moon."

She gestured around forlornly, "This. You. Me. The laughs. All of it."

She turned her grey eyes back to him, and now he could see the glimmer of tears. "I'm not good at saying goodbye. I'm never good at things like that."

He gave a small nod of understanding—their last parting had been bearable because they'd never actually said farewell. She'd gone on maternity leave, while he was out in the field, but it was routine, something that had been discussed ahead of time, it was temporary. Then he was transferred, while she was still on leave, and he'd packed his things and disappeared. There had been no awkward hugs or let's-keep-in-touch or strange bonds of sudden kinship. It had been simple, clean, easy.

This was different. This was none of those things.

"Hey, bella," he cooed softly, reaching forward to cup her cheek, rubbing his thumb across the smooth, pale skin. "It's not the end of the world."

"I know," she sighed, frustrated with her own run-away emotions, rolling her eyes. "I'm just tipsy and overly emotional right now. It's stupid, this is what we do, I know, I just—"

"You don't have to apologize," he interrupted gently. "And you don't even have to explain. I know."

She looked at him, looked deep into those eyes that could swallow the whole world, and she knew that he truly did know. Placing his other hand on her opposite cheek, he gently pulled her forward, leaving a soft kiss on her forehead, a silent benediction for his forlorn angel.

Then he turned away, opening the passenger door and motioning for her to get in, "You've got an early flight in the morning."

She nodded, wordlessly climbing into the car, eyes fixed straight ahead as he closed the door and walked around to the other side.

The drive back to the hotel was short and quiet as each wondered what the other was thinking. They walked across the parking lot and through the double doors without so much as a single word. The sound of their footsteps disappeared once they stepped onto the heavy plush carpet in the lobby, and they moved in-sync to the elevator. They got in and David pushed the buttons for their respective floors.

"Thank you." Erin's voice was barely audible over the hum of the elevator as it slowly hoisted itself up the shaft.

"You're welcome," David responded, and he hoped that she could hear the sincerity behind his words.

"It's been…good," she gave a curt nod when she found the appropriate word to describe the past three days. "It's been really good, getting to catch up with you."

He could feel her pulling away, retreating back to her other life, her other self, the one in which he had no place or part. It actually felt colder in the elevator, as if she'd physically removed his source of heat.

"Yeah," he agreed softly, taking a moment to study her profile—she was staring at the ceiling, not making eye contact. "It was."

She bit her lip when the elevator chimed, stopping on her floor. The doors opened and she gave him another small smile, "Well, this is me."

"Safe travels, Erin." There were so many other things he wanted to say, but none of them were appropriate.

"Thanks," her smile deepened, but the sadness in her eyes was still there. "You take care, David."

He nodded and she exited the elevator, turning to wave goodbye as the doors closed.

That face. That sad, tragically beautiful face, with those beckoning eyes filled with unshed tears. That face was David Rossi's undoing.

He reached out his hand, stopping the doors just before they closed, causing them to lurch open again.

Erin stepped back, surprised by the sudden movement, but as he moved towards her, she pulled forward again, without even thinking, like a magnet being pulled to its mate. They simply embraced, not moving, not speaking for several beats.

He was just going to give her a farewell hug—at least that's what he told himself. He just wanted to say goodbye properly, the way you'd say it to a friend, to a close colleague (deep down, he knew that she'd somehow become much more than any of those things, though he'd never admit it, not to himself, not to her). Just one embrace and then he'd smile, wish her well, and get back on the damn elevator.

Things didn't go according to plan.

Her head was nestled in the crook of his neck; he could feel the soft gust of her breath on his skin. But after a few moments, he felt something else—something tiny, quick, almost furtive. Her lips, gently kissing his neck, the tiniest flutters of touches, something that seemed so natural and instinctually right that he wondered at first if she even realized that she was doing it.

Then she rolled forward on the balls of her feet, kissing the corner of his jaw, lightly nipping the skin with her teeth, kissing it again. Pulling back slightly, she nuzzled her nose along the line of his jaw, to his chin, her mouth reconnecting to his flesh at the pulse point at the top of his neck.

He did not move, did not speak, barely breathed as he let her administer these little tokens along his skin. Erin was a strange creature in moments like this—easily spooked, quick to pull back from the chase—and until her movements stopped their tentative pressure, he would not do anything that would frighten her away. What he really wanted to do was throw her against the nearest wall and return her kisses with deep, hot, passionate ones of his own, but doing so would jolt her back into reality and send her back to safety (away from him, away from them, away from this thing bubbling up inside of them) and he'd rather lose his right arm than let that happen.

Her teeth came out again as she moved further down his neck, pushing away his shirt collar. Her arms wove around him and her fingers pressed deep into the muscles beneath his shoulder blades, pulling him closer into her. She gave a soft whine of frustration, biting his neck again, salving it with her hot tongue, digging her nails into his skin.

There it was. The moment he'd been waiting for—she was no longer gentle and timid and hesitant, she was replaced by a being of teeth and talons and fire, now the die had been cast and things were beyond repair, set in stone, written by the hand of god, decided and set and sealed by fate.

Now David reacted, one hand automatically fisting itself deep in the nest of blonde tresses, the other pressing into the small of her back, pulling her hips into his as their lips finally met, clashing with such force that the heavens seemed to shake.

With a soft  _hmmm_  of satisfaction at the taste of his tongue, Erin's muscles suddenly melted into the delicious feeling of his body against hers, molding together in a way that was equally familiar and novel. They'd been here before, but every time was its own unique experience, and this one was no different in that respect.

She pulled away breathlessly, though the light dancing in her eyes told David that this was far from over. She stepped back, her eyes locked onto his, baiting him, taunting him, as she moved further away ( _c_ _ome and catch me if you can_ ). He advanced in fluid motion, though she countered by stepping to the side. His hand immediately went to her waist, checking her movement before she fully slipped away. This earned him another little hum from the blonde vixen standing in front of him, her thin lips curving into a smile as she stepped back again, her body retreating from his hand once more. Again, he stepped forward, his own grin deepening when her back hit the wall. He quickly placed his hands on the wall, on either side of her, hemming her in, and he was suddenly reminded of the fact that she was so much smaller than he was (because her attitude was so large and aggressive and dominant, he forgot that her physical body was not).

Her eyes were locked onto his mouth, her own lips already parted as she drew an unsteady breath. His cologne was heady and her skin was gooseflesh at the thought of his nearness, every nerve in her body was singing with desire and anticipation and her mind pulsed with one single thought:  _please don't let this end, don't ever let this end_.

He lowered his head, his mouth making contact at the base of her neck, and he grinned when he heard her inhale sharply. Her head rolled forward, her lips seeking him out as well, but he continued his trek up the column of her throat, and she instinctively turned her head again, allowing him access. He reached the corner of her jaw line, just below her ear, and she gave a slight giggle, shivering under the heat of his mouth. And though she was thoroughly enjoying the effects of his lips on her skin, more than anything, she wanted to recapture his mouth with her own, to taste him again and feel the sparks that always accompanied the pressure of his tongue on hers.

Reaching up to take his head in her hands, she rose on the balls of her feet, pulling him closer to her as her lips found his, her tongue sliding between his teeth with a ease that said  _I belong here_. It was a gloriously delicious feeling, and the warmth pooling between her legs made her crave more. He leaned in, his body almost crushing hers—she could feel his arousal pressing against her, and her core actually  _ached_  with need for the weight and feel of him inside of her.

A door opened further down the hall, and they quickly disengaged, David stepping back to let her move past him. Wordlessly, she turned and walked down the hall to her hotel room, not even bothering to see if he was following her—even if she couldn't hear the sound of his footsteps (which were nearly drowned out by the hammering in her own head), she could feel him, could sense the tension and electricity behind her, hovering like the proverbial axe. She decided with a feverish grin that an axe was the perfect description for David Rossi—whenever he was descending, she always lost her head. He had only to be near her, and she was undone.

His hands were at her back, already massaging the bundle of nerves at the base of her spine, and she could feel the heat rising in her core with every press of his fingers.

"Are you still on the pill, bella?" He purred into her ear, and she chuckled at the fact that only David Rossi could make a question about birth control sound like an enticement. Also, it was so typically David that he still couldn't remember her birthday, but he remembered what type of birth control she used.

"Yes," she answered breathlessly, nearly cheering with joy as the door unlocked. He swept her inside and they practically tumbled into the bed, a whirlwind of shaking hands and searching mouths and disappearing clothing. There was a brief pause as David reached over to turn on the bedside lamp, at which Erin bit her lip and grinned devilishly.

Neither one pulled back or asked to slow down—that would give them both time to think, and if they thought about it, they would realize, once again, that this was a colossal mistake. This was how it had always between them—frenzied, animalistic, pulsing need and pounding bodies, years of pent-up aggressions and affections and everything in-between.

She was lying beneath him now; his hand slipped between her legs and he smiled smugly at the fact that she was already slick and hot. She opened them wider, silently willing him to enter, though her only reward was a light feathering of his fingers before they cruelly disappeared again. The frustrated groan that rumbled deep in her throat made his cock twitch in anticipation. More than anything, he simply wanted to plunge into the warmth and wetness of her, to find himself buried deep within her once again, but he hadn't earned his title as the Casanova of the Bureau by acting like an impulsive teenager. For the past three days, his mind had played a very specific reel of images, and dammit, tonight he was going to see the show in three-dimensions.

He pulled her up, trading places as he laid down. Erin understood, she rose on her knees, moving to straddle him, but his hand on her hip stopped her. She cocked her head in confusion at first, but she nodded in recognition when his hands gently started to turn her around. His hands stayed firmly on her hips, steadying her as she shifted to the reverse cowgirl position. As she slowly sank down, taking him in one inch at a time, he watched the muscles of her lower back contract and ripple as she adjusted and began to set the pace, mimicking the glimpse he'd gotten when he'd snuck up on her in the gym two nights ago. This view was much better than the one in the gym, and David found himself sighing at the odd sense of  _belonging_  that he felt whenever he was sheathed in the warm silkiness of her. The mellow light from the lamp shifted around the shadow of her spine; the alcohol and the adrenaline had already created a light glow in her skin—it was mesmerizing, like watching moonlight move over water. Her hands covered his, which were still on her hips, her fingers slipping between his own, and he felt himself returning back to his own body, immediately becoming part of the moment again, rather than just a casual observer.

This was the third time that they'd spent a night together, but the first time that he'd felt so connected. Of course, that was probably due to the fact that the last two times had happened in rapid succession, when they barely knew each other—it had been four and a half years since then, and during that time, they'd learned more about one another, they'd been friends and allies and enemies and sparring partners and everything in-between, and now he could admit that he did care about Erin Strauss (although that was as much as he would admit, as much as he could admit, because as lovely as this was, it was for one night and one night only, and he couldn't think or feel past that).

David was quieter than usual, Erin noticed. He wasn't the biggest talker during sex (not that it bothered her, she was never good with words and really, this sort of thing didn't need a running commentary), but he hadn't spoken since they'd entered the room, and in her current position, she couldn't even see his face to read his emotions. She tightened the grip of her fingers, squeezing his, trying to feel something, anything, to gauge his feelings. His right hand pulled away, and she briefly wondered what it meant, until she felt the trace of his fingers down the line of her spine, gentle at first, but with increasing pressure as it traveled downward. He was mapping the muscles and contours of her body, caressing her, silently reassuring her that he was here, with her. That was all she needed; she stopped biting her lip in uncertainty and allowed herself to simply return to the feeling of his body with hers.

There was something different in his touch. It was almost…reverent. It was becoming oddly similar to the way Paul made love to her—at that thought, she stopped herself, but it wasn't because of her husband. In her mind, she'd referred to their current activity as  _love_ , when before it had been plain and simple sex. Sometimes there wasn't a difference, but when it came to their relationship, there was.

Oh, gods.

He was here because he cared, not because she was simply an easy target, a quick roll in the sack. He was here because she'd been upset and he'd wanted to make her happy again, because he cared. Because he…Erin couldn't finish the thought, not even in the dark privacy of her own head.

What was even more surprising was the fact that she was quite alright with it. After the first fateful encounter, they'd agreed that they couldn't talk about it, and they couldn't let it affect their working relationship, but they'd never agreed not to care about one another. This wasn't breaking any of the rules (at least not the ones they'd set), they really weren't even working together anymore, so what did it matter if there was something more behind the fucking?

It did matter. Deep down, Erin knew that it did. It mattered because David wasn't the only one who cared. She did, too.

The realization was just as startling and earth-shattering as the orgasm that followed it.

* * *

It was several hours and a few more rounds of horizontal tango later that Erin heard the gods-awful screeching of the electronic hotel clock. David grumbled something unintelligible as she crawled over him to silence the awful squawking.

"What was that?" She remained sprawled across his chest.

"You're like a cat, walking all over people when they're trying to sleep."

"I thought you were a dog person."

"I am. And that's why."

She smiled softly at his grumpiness, knowing it was mostly feigned, although David Rossi never was quite the morning person.

"You didn't mind my lack of personal boundaries earlier," she teased, pushing herself into a sitting position so that she could look down at his impassive face.

"I wasn't asleep earlier," he countered, his eyes still closed.

Her grinned deepened, "No, you definitely weren't asleep."

She got up and went into the bathroom. David could hear her turn on the shower, heard her return and rummage through her bag for her toiletries. He rolled onto his side and watched her.

"Your hips are wider."

"Excuse me?" She turned around, her expression mortified.

"Don't gimme that look. You could stand a little extra curves. It suits you."

"So you basically said I have a fat ass and that I should take it as a compliment," she surmised, turning to give him the full Ice Queen freeze—a look of total disdain, down the full length of her classical nose. However, the effect was lessened by the fact that she was still utterly naked, with last night's makeup and hair that left no doubts as to the fact that she'd been well and truly fucked the night before.

"See that's the problem with you, Erin," his tone was stern, but his eyes were twinkling mischievously. "You infer things and then you claim that I imply them, but really it's just you taking things out of context."

"Tell me again how a guy like you is working on his second divorce?" She feigned confusion. "I mean, a winner like you? How do the ladies ever tire of your smooth talk and charming wit?"

"I didn't hear you complaining about my smoothness and charm last night."

"You weren't talking last night." She replied easily, going back into the bathroom.

"But I was still using my tongue," he shot back, and this earned him a short laugh the echoed loudly in the tile bathroom. He liked her laugh—it wasn't the dainty, country-club lady-like lilt that one would expect of someone with Erin's breeding and looks; it was sharp and full and unapologetic, the laugh of a broad, a dame, a real dynamo. Once he truly got to know her, David realized that it suited her perfectly.

The trading of barbs stopped once he heard her step into the shower—he knew what came next. She was flirty and warm and familiar whenever they first woke, but as soon as she returned from the shower (after she'd washed away the evidence, the scent of him, the sweat, the sticky remains of their tryst), she would become flat and businesslike. They would have the let's-not-talk-about-this talk, and then she'd finished getting dressed and they'd go their separate ways.

Erin wasn't the only one who was bad at goodbyes. David always hated the coldness of their partings, the calculating removal of smiles and warmth, the everything-they-weren't that became even more painfully obvious during these moments. So, he decided that he wouldn't stick around to be a part of it this time. He quietly got up, got dressed, gathered his things, and left.

* * *

**Vienna, Virginia.**

By the time Erin had arrived at the front doorstep of her home, she'd had enough time to sufficiently berate herself for her complete lack of morals (though she still had yet to actually feel regret for her actions, which she was certain was a key element in the process), and like the times before, she resolved to further dedicate herself to the happiness and love of the man who deserved both items in abundance.

That man opened the door, his face alight at the sight of her, "Why didn't you call? I could've picked you up at the airport."

"I didn't want you to have to drag Jordan along. It's such a crazy drive," she admitted, dropping her bag in the front hallway and pulling Paul into a hug, savoring the warmth and strength of him. "Oh, I've missed you both so much."

"Mama?" A young voice inquired from the living room, and Erin moved towards it—she was immediately greeted by an enthusiastic three-year-old who'd obviously dressed herself.

After several minutes of kissing and hugging and cooing and questioning, Erin had settled Jordan onto her hip (although she was almost too big to still be held like that, Erin realized with a pang of sadness) and was moving around the kitchen, preparing her daughter's favorite snack as Paul dutifully took her bags into the laundry room. She'd told him not to unpack them, citing that she'd do it later and give him a chance to relax, but in reality, she didn't want him to find the panties that had been soaked in her arousal from her hallway foreplay with David—not that they were definite proof of anything, but she was well-versed in the understanding of circumstantial evidence to realize that they could raise questions, and she couldn't lie about it. In fact, she'd never lied to Paul about her time with David, at least not by her definition. Sure, she'd never told him about the affairs, but she'd never said that they hadn't happened either. There was a difference between lying about it and simply not mentioning it, right?

Jordan slipped off her mother's hip, took her snack and disappeared back to her cartoons. Erin turned her attention to the dishes in the sink, smiling as she thought of how hectic the past four days had been for her husband as he'd played single parent to a toddler. She heard him approach, felt his arms snake around her waist as he nuzzled her neck.

The sad, sick, horrible thing was that every time she'd slept with David Rossi, Erin had immediately felt a sudden need to go and rekindle things with her husband—as if somehow, she atoned for her folly by reapplying herself to her marriage. This was no exception.

She leaned back, closing her eyes as she relished the solid feel of his chest against her back (he was taller than David, something she shouldn't be thinking right now, but still, she thought it). He was a good man, a darling man, and he didn't deserve the unknowing hell that she put him in. She should feel guilty and horrible, and yet she didn't, which made her feel guilty and horrible for not feeling guilty and horrible.

She hated the flatness of her emotions—secretly she wondered if she had some kind of antisocial disorder, some brain-chemical imbalance that stopped her from feeling remorse or empathy or anything at all. What kind of person cheated on their spouse and then felt absolutely ambivalent about it?

David had left while she was in the shower. Because that's what they were—people who had sex in hotels and left before breakfast, people who had no morals or empathy, people who fucked one another and fucked up the lives of everyone they cared about, because they had no soul. Greedy, mindless, soulless creatures. That's what she told herself. It still didn't actually change how she felt.

David had left, because he wasn't meant to be in her life. Her life was here, with her husband and her daughter, with the people she loved, with the man who was always there in the morning, who didn't slink away without a word. David had left, because he didn't really care. And she'd let him leave, because she didn't really care either. That's what she told herself. It still didn't actually change how she felt.

Erin didn't want to think about those feelings anymore. She turned around quickly, wrapping her arms around Paul's neck and capturing his mouth with a sudden vengeance that surprised him. Her kisses were harsh, insistent, as she tugged at his clothes, more out of frustration than actual desire. She bit his lip and he pulled back.

"Whoa, what's wrong?" He laughed lightly, but his eyes betrayed his concern.

"Nothing," she lied, her hands cupping his face. "I just missed you."

"So I see," he smirked. He leaned in again, kissing the top of her forehead. "We'll continue this after Jordan's bedtime."

She nodded, this time gently kissing his lips in agreement.

As he moved around the kitchen, his tone turned conversational, "I bet you were miserable in Seattle."

"Why do you say that?" She looked at him curiously.

He reached for a bottle of pills on the other side of the kitchen island, holding them up in explanation, "You left your antibiotics here."

Erin felt her heart stop and her stomach drop.

"I-I-I completely forgot," she stammered, her mouth suddenly dry.

He was confused by her reaction, "It's not that big of a deal, Erin. You'd been taking them for over a week, and you were only off for a few days. Just pick up where you left off today and it shouldn't be a problem."

"No, no, I know that—you're right," she nodded quickly. She knew that he thought she was going batty for getting so upset over a few missed doses, but that wasn't her concern at all.

She and David hadn't used a condom because she was on the pill.

Oh, shit.


	7. Role Reversal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words of dialogue in the first section of this chapter are not mine—they belong to Simon Mirren, who wrote the particular episode from which this moment was taken (2.23 No Way Out Part II: The Evilution of Frank).

_"I found a martyr in my bed tonight—she stops my bones from wondering just who I am...Oh, who am I?"_

_~Fun (Some Nights)._

* * *

**May 2007. Quantico, Virginia.**

"You have three children but you favor the middle one, your son." Agent Aaron Hotchner's voice was unbelievably impassive as he continued his assessment.

"What do you think you're doing?" Erin felt the breath leave her lungs. He was dancing along the edge of something dangerous, and she didn't like the feeling that it inspired within her.

Agent Hotchner didn't skip a beat, "Of course, you love all your children, but not like your son—"

"That's enough—"

"The bonsai you obsessively nurture is to compensate for feelings of failure as a mother—"

"Agent Hotchner, I said that is enough!" Erin was on her feet now, her hands slamming onto her desk to emphasize the severity of her command. She took a second to push back the wave of absolute hysteria that was threatening to overtake her.  _Breathe. He doesn't know. He couldn't know. No one knows. No one but you, god, and the devil._

She shielded herself by immediately launching into a litany of red tape bullshit (yes, even she realized how ludicrous it was, but Bureau politics were part and parcel of the job, and if she wanted to remain in power, then she had to take out her biggest threat—which of course, just  _had_  to be David Rossi's protégé, Aaron Hotchner).

It wasn't until he turned to leave that she felt the fear rising again, and she couldn't stop herself from calling out, "Agent Hotchner—"

She stopped herself from asking the question, too fearful of what it might give away, but of course, he knew what she wanted to ask.  _Damn you, David, you trained him too well._

He turned back around, "How do I know you favor your son?"

She glanced down at the photo—was it that obvious? Were there other things about Christopher that seemed obvious to Agent Hotchner's intuitive gaze, things about Erin's past that he could cobble together into a deadly narrative?

"I'm good at my job," was his simple reply, and with that, he left.

That was not what Erin wanted to hear. That was much too vague, it left too much in the air—she tried to tell herself that she was being paranoid, but she couldn't ignore the sick feeling in her stomach.

She'd never had Christopher's paternity tested (and why should she, when she was happily married to Paul?), but she'd known the truth from the moment she'd seen the result on the home pregnancy test. She'd known because she'd been ill everyday of her pregnancy with Jordan, but she hadn't had the slightest bit of morning sickness at all while she carried Christopher—of course, every pregnancy was different, people said, and many of her girlfriends and neighbors had simply said it was divine favor, after the hell she'd gone through with the first pregnancy. She'd smiled and nodded and laughed in relief, but deep down, she knew the real reason. Her body knew the truth, and it willingly accepted the housing and nourishing of David Rossi's seed, whereas it had revolted against her husband's. It seemed like a sign, though Erin wasn't sure what it signified.

Paul had received the son that he'd wanted, and they'd proudly named him Christopher Paul Strauss. Of course, no one questioned their son's dark hair or brown eyes, because genetics was always full of strange twists and flukes. For the first time ever, Erin had truly felt guilty about her time spent with David. Her infidelity had stolen Paul's chance at being a father to her son, had created a new boundary that should have never been crossed. Paul deserved a son—one that was really, truly his, not a bastard created out of one night of bad decisions and complete immorality on his wife's part.

Despite that harsh description of her son, Erin loved him deeply. In the end, things had gone badly for her and David, and that was a tragedy. But Christopher would always be a part of her life, a living monument to the fact that, at one time, they did love each other (yes, she could say it now, softly and quietly within the recesses of her own mind), and at one time, they'd shared a connection that had been worth shattering every other aspect of her world. He had her laugh and her temper, with David's curiosity and contemplativeness. She loved her daughters, but Agent Hotchner was right—it wasn't the same, simply because their father wasn't the same as Christopher's.

As soon as Christopher was a year old, Erin immediately set out to get pregnant again—not because she truly wanted another child, but because she felt honor-bound to provide Paul with a legitimate son, one of his own flesh and blood. Anna Claire had arrived instead (furthering Erin's suspicions, because she was a girl and because Erin had been ill for the first five months of her pregnancy), and at that point, she was thirty-seven years old and Paul was forty-two. They had three children; they decided that they were happy enough.

Paul was none the wiser of her infidelity or his failure to produce a son, and so Erin had gone along with the ruse. She'd never had any intention of telling him the truth (again, he never asked if Chris was his son, so it technically wasn't lying in her book), and David Rossi was so far out of the picture that it didn't seem to matter anymore. He'd never meet his own son, and though it seemed a little cruel, Erin was glad for that.

Ignorance was bliss. Of that she was certain.

* * *

**April 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

David Rossi dropped his go-bag onto the floor of his office with a heavy sigh. He knew that he should simply turn around and head home—they'd been out in the field for eight days straight—but he wasn't ready to return to an empty house, with no company but his thoughts. Even though the rest of the team had already left, he was still surrounded by the sounds of the office—the late night vacuuming of the janitors, the occasional beeps and whirrs of various computers and printers, the odd passerby weaving their way through the darkened halls. It was strangely comforting.

Every case was hard. Some were harder than others—the ones that weren't solved, the ones that took too long or lost too much in the process, the faces that reminded him of his mother, his sisters, his brothers-in-arms, the ones that threatened to completely annihilate his faith in fellow human beings. The ones involving children were always the hardest.

This last case was a lethal combination—it involved being too late, a child, and a sadist who would be locked away and yet would never be fully punished for the horror he committed.

All of this was further intensified by the knowledge that his birthday was fast approaching—soon, he would have to make the annual trek to see Thomas Yates, one of the most prolific killers he'd ever encountered, to dutifully receive another name (another victim, another body to find, another family to shatter with the heartbreaking truth that their daughter or sister or mother or wife or lover was a victim of the infamous Womb Raider and would truly never return home, another flame of hope to extinguish, another light to quietly and mournfully leave the world).

His office was suddenly too small and too quiet. He decided to take a walk around the building to clear his head. Without even thinking, he found his feet making their way to her office, as if his body understood what he needed before his mind was even aware of it.

They hadn't spoken in almost two weeks—not since the shouting match in Hotch's office. But that didn't matter. Things like that didn't matter, not when it really came down to it. The battle had ended on a softer note than usual, and after seeing the fear in those light green eyes, he'd promised to stop shirking his protective detail (because even though it irritated him beyond belief to be treated like a rookie who couldn't watch his own back, the realization that it kept a blonde pillar of steel from turning into a teary-eyed puddle of worry was enough to make it bearable). Erin had curtly nodded in agreement, and they hadn't talked about it since.

And now here he was, traveling soundlessly through the darkened halls, down a path that he could have walked blindfolded, because this was his home even more so than the sprawling mansion in the country was, because his body would always find its way back to hers, regardless of the time or distance or emotion between them.

He rounded the corner and saw a weak shaft of light pooling underneath her office door. She was still there—somehow, he knew that she would be.

She was standing at her credenza, which was covered in paperwork that she was filing. She turned around at the sound of the door, opening her mouth to speak, but she took one look at his face and stopped. She moved to him, quickly closing the gap between them, clasping both her hands around his wrists and taking a moment to simply look into his eyes, which were so dull and flat and scarily unlike him.

Compassion swelled over her like a wave, and in that moment, she would have gladly laid her skin open to any form of pain, if it would lessen the hurt and fatigue that she felt radiating from every pore of his being.

She understood the reason behind his sudden appearance, the cause of the pain in those dark eyes—she'd already received the update from Agent Hotchner, she'd seen the crime scene photos, and she felt the same helplessness at witnessing the body of a beautiful, delicate child that had been completely destroyed by a depraved monster.

Wordlessly, she guided him over to the black leather couch in the corner of her office, gently pushing him to sit, which he did, his face skewed in confusion. Taking him by the shoulders, she guided him again, remaining silent as she laid him down on his left side, back against the couch. Slipping out of her heels, she joined him, lying on her right side, her head slightly above his own as her left hand guided his head to the crook of her neck, her fingers gently running through his salt and pepper locks as her left ankle lightly hooked around the curve of his calf. He reached out, his right arm wrapping around her waist, anchoring her and keeping her from rolling off the edge.

She felt his long lashes brush against her skin as he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. She could feel the tension melting away from his muscles, but the tiredness and sorrow were still there, so she simply continued caressing his head, her hands occasionally traveling down to rub small circular patterns on his shoulder blades.

The slow, steady beat of Erin's pulse against his forehead had an immediate calming effect upon David Rossi, and his breathing slowed to match the soft  _whoosh_  of her lungs that filled his ears. She didn't ask questions or offer condolences, and for that, he was grateful. He wasn't ready to explain, to speak or to accept platitudes for the sheer evil that he'd witnessed. She allowed him to simply be. And that was exactly what he needed.

After a few minutes, her arms slipped beneath his own, hooking around his shoulders and pulling him tighter, her lips pressing the top of his head in a fiercely protective kiss. Like so many times before, their bodies melded together, fitting like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

It was the first time that David really felt how strong she was—physically, emotionally, mentally. Every other time they'd been in each other's arms, he had been the one holding her, and it had always started because she'd allowed him to see some chink in her armor and her uncharacteristic bout of vulnerability had spoken to the white knight within him. But this time, the roles were reversed, and he could feel the invisible bruises and tears on his soul and psyche slowly mending and healing (though not completely, never completely, but better and faster than they would on his own) simply by the power of her embrace. It was almost as if he could feel her own strength seeping through her skin into his, slipping and melding into his bones, restoring what had been lost during the brutal events of the day.

Her lips remained pressed to his head, her nostrils filling with the scent of him, her own eyes closing in silent supplication as she wished to the heavens above that her simple offering would be enough to comfort him and take away the ghosts in his eyes, though she knew her orison to be a futile one, to some extent.

They didn't speak, or move, or think of anything beyond the sound of the other's breathing. Rossi closed his eyes again, reveling in the warm softness of Erin's skin, mingled with the faint scent of her honeysuckle perfume. She was his own private Garden of Eden, and in her arms, he felt sheltered, protected, encased in the strength of some indomitable fortress who would keep him from the weight and the worry of his world. He drifted into peaceful slumber, and Erin soon tumbled into dreamland with him.

When she awoke almost two hours later, her neck felt like it was on fire from the strain of its awkward position, and she couldn't feel her right arm, which was tucked beneath David's head. He felt her stirring and his own eyes fluttered opened as he grimaced, taking a moment to regain his bearings. Looking at the clock, he felt a pang of guilt—it was late, and Erin still had a kid at home.

"You need to get home," he sat up, keeping his arm around her as he pulled her up to a sitting position as well.

"Oh, wow," her hand went to her hair, trying to pull her locks back into some semblance of their original form. She sat up and moved across the room, opening her bottom desk drawer to pull out her purse, fishing out her cellphone.

"Dammit," she muttered under her breath whenever she saw a missed call and two texts from her youngest daughter. She dialed her home phone number.

"About time you decided to call," Anna's tone was eerily like her mother's whenever she was filled with righteous indignation.

"I know, I'm sorry," Erin apologized, glancing over at David with a small smile that belied her words. "It was a rough day; I accidentally fell asleep on the couch in the office."

It wasn't a lie. Not in the least.

"I'm on my way home now," she finished.

"Don't fall asleep at the wheel," Anna warned.

"I won't. See you soon. Love you."

Anna mumbled something that might have been a reciprocation of her mother's love (at least that's how Erin chose to interpret it) and hung up.

Erin moved back to David, her eyes still filled with concern. "Are you OK? I mean, are you alright to drive home?"

"I'll be fine, Erin." He assured her, scrubbing a hand across his face and rising to his feet.

"That's not what I asked," she returned softly, stepping in again, her fingers gently resting on the lapels of his sports coat. Her eyes searched his, trying to see past the defenses that she knew he was slowly rebuilding. "Do you think you really need to be alone tonight?"

The tenderness in her voice actually brought tears to David's eyes, and it was that simple reaction that cemented Erin's decision.

"Come on," she turned and walked over to the couch, slipping back into her shoes. "You can stay in the guest bedroom."

"Erin, it's not necessary—"

"Be that as it may, it's still happening," she shot back, grabbing her purse from her desk and motioning for him to exit the office. "Get your go-bag from your office. You can wash your spare clothes at my place and wear them into work tomorrow."

He couldn't help but smile—she always had an answer for everything, a battle plan mapped out in a matter of seconds. Her efficiency and commanding air were equal parts irritating and adorable.

"And are you going to let my protective detail follow us all the way back to your place?" He asked, arching his brow.

She gave a frustrated sigh; obviously she hadn't thought about that little factor.

"I'll handle it," she turned back to the phone on her desk.

"This wouldn't even be a problem if you'd let me have my way two weeks ago," he teased, knowing it would only anger her.

"I'll handle it," she repeated, not even bothering to look back at him as she leaned across the desk to pick up the receiver and dial a number.

"That's a nice skirt."

She merely turned around, giving him the slow burn which succinctly informed him that his comments were neither necessary nor welcome. One quick phone call later, SSA Rossi's protective detail for the night had been removed, and Section Chief Strauss was gathering her things and ushering him out the door once more.

She turned out the lights and closed the door as they walked out, back to the BAU offices for David's things, then out to the parking garage, to their respective vehicles. David followed her gunmetal grey crossover back into Vienna, to a quiet suburb with sprawling lawns and well-tended shrubbery.

David had never been to Erin's house before, but it was almost exactly what he would've imagined. It was an elegant-yet-simple split level, light grey with white trim and navy shutters, with clean lines and warm lights shining up the paving stone walk-way. The flowerbeds were filled with neat rows of various bulb plants—hyacinths, tulips, irises, and daffodils, their brilliant hues making up for the house's cool exterior.

He pulled into the driveway behind her, taking a moment to fully appreciate the cozy view before killing the engine and grabbing his go-bag from the trunk of his sports car.

She was out of her vehicle as well, looking back at him expectantly, a timid smile playing on her lips. This was a big thing for her, allowing him into her home, her sanctuary, the only place that he'd never been. He knew this, and he was both touched and frightened at the realization—touched that she would trust him with this, and frightened that he would somehow damage it in some way.

Part of him knew that he should have refused—after all, it wasn't the first time that he'd been alone after a particularly hard-hitting case, he could survive on his own—and an even smaller part of him wished that he had actually declined her hospitality, simply for fear of ruining whatever tenuous thing grew between them now. But the largest part of him, the deepest, truest part of him, knew that she'd seen through it all, peered right into his soul, and understood his need to not be alone tonight. He could survive on his own, but suddenly, he realized that he didn't want to.

He caught up with her, following her into the garage and to the door that was attached to the house.

Erin had been smart enough to call ahead and warn Anna of their impending house guest on the drive home, cutting off any potentially embarrassing situations before they even began. Of course, Anna was immediately intrigued at the thought of her mother bringing someone home (a  _male_  someone, even if he was 'just a coworker', according to Erin) and opened the door as soon as Erin reached for it, an energetic smile on her face.

"Hello," she had her mother's eyes, bright and quick, which took him in and silently approved within mere seconds.

"Hello," he replied, slightly taken aback by this small hurricane that had blown open the door.

"Did you have the house alarm on while you were here alone?" Erin went straight into mother-mode, and pleasantries were temporarily forgotten.

Anna rolled her eyes, stepping back into the small hallway to allow them to enter, "Yes, Mom, I'm not completely stupid, you know."

"Well, sometimes you forget."

"Well, I didn't tonight."

Erin suddenly remembered her manners. "David, this is my daughter, Anna. Anna, this is David Rossi."

The two shook hands before Anna moved around him, closing and locking the door and quickly punching in the alarm code.

Motioning back to the alarm keypad with a careless wave as she continued into the kitchen, Erin warned, "If you need to leave the house for any reason, come wake me up so that you don't set off the alarm."

He nodded, his dark eyes taking in the open space of her kitchen, the French doors that led out to a stone patio and a small pool, all enclosed in a sturdy wooden fence covered in morning glory vines. Again, there were colorful flowers dotting the backyard landscape, and he briefly envisioned Erin working in her garden in the warm sunshine, happy and sweaty and elbows-deep in the earth.

Erin crossed the kitchen to a wide staircase, wisely toeing off her high heels before ascending. David dutifully followed, fully aware that Anna was right behind him, still smiling like a Cheshire cat.

"Here's the guest room," Erin announced, opening the first door off the second floor landing and flipping on the light. "It used to be Jordan's."

Though he'd never met any of her children (except for Anna, just now), David remembered their names and their faces from old family photos in Erin's office—he knew that Jordan was her eldest daughter, who'd moved out several years ago when she went to college.

The room no longer looked as if it belonged to a teenage girl—it was filled with muted tones and elegant bedding, a guest bedroom straight out of a catalog. David set his bag on the bed and Erin continued her hostess speech, "The bathroom is one door down; towels are in the cabinet behind the door. Anna will be up at 6 am for school, but she usually keeps it pretty quiet, so it shouldn't disturb you."

He simply nodded, turning back to her with a small smile.

Her daughter was still peeking around the edge of the door, silently taking in the exchange between Erin and this stranger.

"Well, I'm off to bed." Anna stepped forward, giving her mother a quick hug before flashing David another smile, "It was nice meeting you, Agent Rossi."

"You, too, Anna," he returned her smile. The teenager disappeared down the hall and David heard the light click of a door shutting.

Suddenly, Erin became nervous. She motioned to his bag, "Just give me your other sets of clothes and I'll start the wash."

He dutifully handed over the clothes from his go-bag. She looked down the hall, to the third bedroom, "I think I still have some of Chris' clothes here; I'm sure there's some pajamas that you could borrow."

Without waiting for his response, she drifted into her son's old bedroom, which still looked as if it housed a teenage boy (although it was much too clean for such a thing to be possible). David heard the sound of drawers opening and closing and a few moments later, a triumphant Erin returned with a pair of grey sweatpants and a t-shirt.

He thanked her quietly and she disappeared downstairs. After a few minutes, David heard the faint hum of the washing machine coming to life. The small sounds of domesticity were comforting, and despite being in a strange house, he felt oddly at-home. He changed his clothes, went into the bathroom, washed his face and brushed his teeth and returned to the wonderfully soft bed, his mind too tired and too busy healing to think on the absurdity of this moment.

* * *

Erin gripped the edges of the washing machine, her teeth worrying her bottom lip as she tried to comprehend what was happening. David Rossi was here, in her house, sleeping in her guest room, walking her floors, breathing her air, living within her sancta terra.

What did this mean? What did he expect? He was still a man and she'd still invited him to her home—it had taken a lot less than that to unravel things between them in the past. David may have been sweet and soft and wounded in her office, but by the time they'd left the building, she could already tell that he was beginning to slip back into his usual self. The logical part of her brain told her that she should have let him go home (alone, to his own home) and let him heal (alone, on his own), but her heart vehemently disagreed—after all, wasn't she living proof of how destructive one can be when one tried to deal with pain and hurt alone?

The person that she used to be would have let him go home alone. Her heart would have ached for him, and she would have prayed to the heavens to lessen his pain, but that was all that she would do, because she would tell herself that they weren't those people, that they couldn't be those people or mean those things to one another. And he would have understood, and he would have accepted that, because that was the person that he used to be.

But the (glorious, thrilling, frightful, wondrous) thing was that they were no longer either of those people any more. She could no longer hold him at arm's length, and he was no longer satisfied with being held at a distance. Eleven months ago, they'd finally decided to break the iron-cast mold of their relationship and start on something new. She'd asked for a year of sobriety, and he'd promised not to talk about it until she brought it up.

She hadn't, of course. Oh, she'd wanted to, several times now, but the fear would catch her words in her throat and her lungs would forget how to work and she would suddenly become fumbling and shaky and uncertain. She wasn't used to talking about their relationship, because it had never been one based on words or flowery phrases, because until eleven months ago, it had been something that they didn't talk about  _at all_.

Maybe she didn't need words (not always, not all the time, not when it mattered the most).

She heard the light rumble of the water pipes as David prepared for bed (making yet another mental note to have the pipes looked at, which she was certain she'd forget again), and the physical pull in her body shocked her—she literally felt, from the pit of her stomach to the top of her shoulders, as if her body was straining to rejoin his, her heart's cry answering the silent cry of his own heart, the instinctual call to return to the place it belonged.

Oh, they were certainly getting into murky waters now.

Regardless of the situational murkiness, Erin knew that she would go back up to him—she had to, her actions had been predetermined and predestined and there was nothing to do but accept that she would not be able to win this battle against her heart (though it was not a battle that she wanted to win anyways, not really, not truly). Besides, she hadn't brought him this far just to abandon him—for the first time in their strange and tumbling relationship, he was allowing her to take care of him, and gods be damned if she didn't prove herself worthy of such a task.

Looking through a basket of clean clothes that was still sitting atop the dryer, she found a pair of yoga pants and a loose tank top, quickly discarding her own clothing and tossing them in the clothes hamper. On bare feet, she padded up the stairs and across the soft carpet to the guest room. The light was out, but she could still see the outline of his body under the covers. She walked to the other side of the bed, silently slipping between the sheets.

David hadn't been sure that Erin would return, but the instant he'd heard the light tread of her feet on the stairs, his heart filled with warmth. She was moving quietly across the room, her calm and soft presence reminding him of just how rough the past few days had been—every movement of her body intimated a bespoke sense of care that his life had lacked for quite some time.

He didn't acknowledge her presence until he felt the mattress dip under her weight, heard the soft rustle as she moved her body closer to his. Once her arms wrapped around him, their bodies instinctively melded together, her chest fusing to his back as her legs intertwined with his, her chin finding its nest in the crook of his neck.

"I wasn't sure you'd come back," he finally spoke into the darkness.

"I always do," she returned quietly, her breath warm upon his skin. "You should know that by now."

He smiled at the thought, because in truth, he did know. Even when his mind was uncertain, there was always a small shadow in his heart that whispered her inevitable return.

"I told you that I wouldn't leave you alone tonight," she continued, her arms squeezing him tighter. "It'd be kind of cruel to bring you here and just leave you in a strange room by yourself."

"You're not exactly renowned for your warmth and compassion," he joked lightly, and felt a wave of relief when she chuckled at the joke.

"But I'm never cruel, David," she purred. He couldn't see her face, but he could hear the smirk in her voice, "I give you exactly what you deserve. That's not cruelty; that's justice."

"Ah, justice," he hummed.

"Justice," she repeated, lightly kissing the shell of his ear.

"So tonight I deserve to be cuddled?"

"You do," her voice was soft, filled with compassion. After a beat, she added, "I saw the crime scene photos."

She felt his chest expand beneath her arms, heard him sigh, and she immediately regretted her words, "We don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to. I didn't mean…I just…I want you to know that it's alright, if you do. I understand."

He knew that she was speaking the truth—she did understand, at least she understood better than any other woman he'd been with, because she'd seen the pictures, she'd felt the disappointment, had known the cost and understood the loss.

"I'm just not used to talking about these things," he admitted softly. "Unless it's with a shrink or a superior performing an evaluation."

She hummed in understanding. There was a silence as David tried to piece together into words and sentences the feelings that swirled in his heart and his head.

"I…I just…" He gave another heavy sigh, the desolation in his voice raw and unmistakable. "I know why they do it—I always do, because it's my job, and I'm good at it, I've always been good at it….I know why, but I just don't know  _why_."

Despite his words, Erin understood his meaning—David Rossi was a behavioral analyst, and all his training and years of experience had taught him to predict and explain human behavior. He could write a book on this particular UNSUB's life, could lecture on it, could dissect it down to the minutest detail, could live and walk inside his mind, and yet, at the end of the day, he still couldn't answer the deeper  _why_ —why did his environment, his biology, and his psychology have to line up in this cosmically perfect way to create this monster? Why did this child have to be the one to die? Why did these parents have to be the ones to live with the guilt and the horror and the loss and the sadness? Why did he have to be the one who actually understood the killer? Why did he have to be the one to find the child's body, to know the smell of blood, to forever remember every wound, every pain, every scream? Why did their world have to contain such evil and such innocence, mixed together in such a hellish way? Why?

Of course, she had no words to say that would answer these questions—no one did, and that was what caused the most angst. So, she decided to be truthful.

"I wish I knew the perfect words to say to take your pain away," she whispered, her own voice choked with tears. "I wish to god that I did."

"There are no perfect words," he replied. She sighed.

"I know." She raised up to kiss his temple. "I know."

His hand moved up, closing over hers, which rested on his chest, over his heart like a shield. Then he gently raised her hand to his lips, kissing the ridges between each knuckle with a sweet reverence that took the breath out of her lungs.

"Thank you." He returned her hand to its home over his heart.

She turned her head, nuzzling her cheek on the fabric covering his shoulder. "Just repaying old favors, my love."

Her voice returned to its usual tone as she added, "Now get some sleep. Tomorrow's gonna be hell."

He gave a slight chuckle in agreement, closing his eyes and being surprised to find that rest was not far away, for the warmth and comfort of the woman beside him had lulled him into a peacefulness that he'd thought would elude him for many more nights, until the images in his head were replaced by something else from another case, eventually removing some of its horror. But the soft feel of her chest against his back, the weight of her inner left knee resting on his inner right, the gentle warmth of her breath on his shoulder drove all those dark images away, at least for now.

_My love_ , was his last thought before he succumbed to sleep.  _She said 'My love.'_

Erin felt David's muscles slacken and his breathing deepen as he drifted into slumber, but this time, she didn't follow him. Her daughter was just down the hall, and she wasn't going to let Anna find her mother in the guest bedroom with some guy whom she'd just brought home. She waited until she was certain that David was asleep before quietly and gently disengaging herself from him. She tucked the comforter around his back, making sure none of the warmth escaped, and then made her way back down the stairs and into her own bedroom, which suddenly seemed cold and empty when faced with the knowledge that a warm, flesh-and-blood man slept upstairs.

With a heavy sigh, she entered the master bathroom, removing her clothing and turning on the shower. The water was almost too hot, and it scalded her skin, but she didn't adjust the temperature—she needed the steam and the sting of the heat to distract her mind, which was still running a million miles per minute.

She'd slipped up again—she'd called him 'My love', and she knew that he'd heard it. He'd heard it and he would remember hearing it in the morning (he always remembered the things that she didn't mean to say, the things she didn't want him to hear or remember, the things that were always closest to the truth and therefore the hardest for her to deal with).

And if he remembered it, then he would surely mention it, which meant that Erin would have to talk about it. Truth be told, she didn't know what to say—it had simply slipped out, just as naturally and effortlessly as breathing.

She didn't regret it. That surprised her, because a year ago, it would have been something that she immediately regretted, and she would have retracted the statement just as quickly. She was glad for the change, because she didn't want to be the person that she was a year ago, and yet it brought an aura of scariness…what was it that her friend Marla always said?  _Scary and wonderful often go hand-in-hand_. _Sometimes you can't have one without the other._

She was definitely at the scary part. The only problem was that she didn't think she deserved the wonderful part. Erin was a devout believer in karma, and she knew that most of her life, she'd been given things that she didn't deserve, and she'd been ungrateful for them, she'd squandered those precious blessings, spat in the face of the Universe that bestowed those gifts, and eventually, she would receive her just dessert. Something deep in her gut told her that David Rossi would be part of the bargain—she feared that she'd be given the chance to make something more out of the strange thing blossoming between them, only to have it ripped away once she truly gave her heart. That was how life was. That was what she deserved.

Erin knew that she had no right to ask any favors from God. Despite her feelings of unworthiness, she found prayers falling from her lips, drifting between the now-cooling droplets of water, hopefully finding their way to divine ears as she silently pleaded for this one thing, this final blessing, her only request—that whatever thing was happening between her and David would be allowed to continue, and that when it finally fell apart, it wouldn't be due to her own fear or stupidity.

Even as she whispered these words, she knew they were futile—her fear and stupidity had sealed their fate long ago, and that was a truth that she'd have to live with for the rest of her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas 'Tommy' Yates, aka The Womb Raider, appears in 7.22 "Profiling 101". If you don't remember the full story, I recommend brushing up on the details before continuing...just a heads up.


	8. Rejuvenation

_"In quiet moments when you think about it, you recognize what is critically important in life and what isn't."_

_~Richard G. Scott._

* * *

**April 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

Alex Blake gave a light sigh as she entered the glass door marked  _Behavioral Analysis Unit_ , her fingers firmly clasped around the Union Jack travel mug that Garcia had given her the day they met. She loved her job, but some days, she didn't necessarily  _like_  it. Yesterday was one of those days, and today was shaping up to be one of those days, too.

The bullpen was empty, although she saw that Spencer's brown leather bag was already at his desk. She looked around quizzically—she noticed the light was already on in the conference room. Setting her purse down at her desk, she made her way up to the set of stairs, and across the landing, drawing herself closer to the source of light.

Spencer had obviously been there for quite some time.

There were two more large boards—one cork, one dry erase—added to the already crowded room. There was a map of the continental United States pinned to the cork board, with various pins dotting the country, and the dry erase board had a list of numbers and names. Blake instantly recognized the numbers from the invisible note left by the Replicator three weeks ago, and the names seemed familiar, too.

The younger agent turned around, not even bothering with pleasantries as he explained, "I couldn't sleep last night, and suddenly, it hit me—the numbers are coordinates. I started plotting them on a map and each set of numbers corresponds to a dump-site used by Thomas Yates."

"And the Replicator thought we would know that because of David Rossi's personal connection to the Womb Raider," Alex surmised.

Spencer gave a slight shrug. "Either that, or he simply knew we'd figure it out eventually. His level of planning suggests that he believes he has plenty of time to reach his end-game. If we're playing chess, then the longer we take to make a move, the more time he has to plan his next one."

"Dave's birthday is in less than two weeks." Alex reminded him. She stepped forward, her gaze following the ominous little trail of pins, "Maybe the Replicator wants to celebrate. And this was our invitation."

"That would explain the cardstock and the writing that seems to be done with a quill or calligraphy pen," Spencer mused. Then he frowned slightly, "We received the letter five weeks in advance of Rossi's birthday. Proper etiquette for weddings and other RSVP events is six to eight weeks. For someone as detail-oriented as the Replicator, that part of the script would have been followed."

Alex took a moment to contemplate his words. "Maybe the event that we're being invited to isn't the same day as Dave's birthday. Maybe it's later on."

"Maybe," Spencer agreed quietly, although Alex could tell that he still had his doubts. He returned his attention to plotting out points on the map.

"I'll go pull all the old files on the Womb Raider case," Alex volunteered, turning on her heel. Her heart gave a quick little flutter at the thought that maybe they'd found a way to nail this guy. It was only three weeks since they'd received the "invitation", which meant they had three to five weeks to figure out what the hell it was for.

Maybe she'd been wrong about today. Maybe it was going to be a good one. As she hurried back down the steps, she glanced down at her travel mug. Regardless of how this day turned out, she was definitely going to need more coffee.

* * *

**Vienna, Virginia.**

Erin was right—Anna was quiet; David barely heard her stirring around the house, getting ready for her day at school. If he hadn't already been awake, he probably wouldn't have heard her at all. But David was an early riser, and he'd been awake for quite some time before he heard her quietly creep down the stairs.

The first thing he'd noticed when he woke up was that Erin was gone. Then he sat up and saw the neatly folded clothes at the edge of the bed. He'd smiled softly at her efficiency, and sadly wished that she'd still been lying next to him so that he could thank her, though he understood why she'd returned to her own bed.

The smell of coffee reached his nostrils, and he decided that it was time to rise. A quick shower and one freshly-laundered set of clothing later, he appeared in the kitchen, looking around expectantly.

Anna was seated at the island in the middle of the kitchen, a bowl of cereal in front of her.

"She's not awake yet," she announced quietly, titling her head in the direction of the master bedroom. "Some mornings, I let her sleep in a little longer, especially when she comes in late the night before."

David couldn't help but smile—Anna spoke of her mother as if she were a small child, not the formidable Ice Queen of Quantico.

"Coffee?" The teen rose to her feet, moving towards the coffee pot.

"Yes, please," David stepped forward, watching the girl move around the room with the ease and certainty that comes from being in one's own home. She set out a mug, filling it with the glorious steaming liquid as she looked quizzically over her shoulder at him.

"How do you take it?"

"Black."

She made a face, "Ick."

He chuckled lightly as she placed the mug before him, taking a moment to savor the smell, "I don't know if I've ever smelled anything this good."

He took a tentative sip, trying to not scald himself, "It tastes amazing, too."

"It's some special blend from Hawai'i," Anna informed him, moving back to her barstool and her cereal. "Mom and Dad discovered it when we went on vacation summer before last. Mom liked it so much that she started special-ordering it."

"I can see why," he took another drink.

"I just don't understand the allure of coffee," she admitted.

"You're too young to need it—you've got plenty of energy without it." He spoke in a conversational tone, and Anna immediately liked the fact that he didn't sound patronizing when he said it. She observed the man for a moment, with his dark hooded eyes and his nice watch and well-trimmed goatee. She wasn't sure what his relationship to her mother was (obviously, they worked together, but Mom never brought home her work friends), but she decided that she approved.

His eyes were traveling the walls, taking in the room that he'd seen only briefly the night before.

"You're welcome to have a look around, if you want," she offered. Noting his hesitancy, she added, "Mom won't mind. The housecleaner's already come this week, so there's not mortifying dust bunnies for you to find."

David laughed at the comment—that sounded like Erin, fretting over the appearance of things.

With another small smile, Anna deposited her dirty dishes in the sink and disappeared upstairs again. David looked around for a moment before deciding to take the teenager's suggestion. After all, he wasn't going to snoop through her things, just look at her house. Nothing invasive or improper about it.

Starting in the kitchen, he found a small hallway that went past the stairs, which led to the laundry room and a small half bathroom. Coming back into the kitchen, to the other side of the staircase, he found another door, which led to a study. It was obviously Erin's, though it held none of the personal touches that her office at work had. There were no photos, no decoration on the wall aside from two framed degrees—a Bachelor's in American Literature and a Bachelor's in Political Science, both awarded to Erin Elaine Breyer (she would say that she didn't display those at work because they had no bearing on her current position, but he knew the real reason was because she didn't want people knowing her maiden name—she didn't want someone to accuse her of building her career simply upon the formidable reputation and powerful connections of her father, which was something that David had done before). He took a moment to study the contents of the book cases—the complete works of Shakespeare, Washington Irving, Victor Hugo, T.S. Eliot, and Edgar Allen Poe, books of poetry by Leonard Cohen, Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Lousie Labé, and Jewel Kilcher, biographies on everyone from Upton Sinclair to Clark Gable to Inez Milholland, various anthologies of short stories, a few books in French, and then an entire shelf dedicated to his own books, as well as any other book regarding a case they'd worked on, which surprised him. He hadn't known that she'd even read his books, much less bought them and kept them.

He suddenly felt as if he were spying on her, so he left the room and continued his journey, silently reminding himself that he wasn't trying to profile her, but rather merely learn the layout of her home. The next room's door was slightly ajar, and when he peeked in, he saw Erin asleep in her bed, her back turned to him, the early morning light already touching the golden strands splayed across the pillow.

He continued his tour, back into the front foyer and the main living room. Like the kitchen, the living room had large French doors that led out to the back yard, which looked even more inviting in the daylight. The room was filled with light, and it had a decidedly family feel to it—the large overstuffed couch, the armchair with the huge cushions, the wicker basket filled with blankets for colder nights, the books and photos and family heirlooms, all arranged and on display. There was a large armoire that housed the TV; when its doors were shut the room was completely devoid of technology, and it had a lovely rustic feel to it. This was the room that was the most like Erin to David, and he immediately decided that it was his favorite in the house.

At the other end of the living room was another opening, an arched doorway with three steps leading down into what Rossi could only describe as the entertainment room. Half of the room was dominated by a large, dark brown leather couch and a deep mahogany coffee table. A flat-screen TV perched on the wall, above a mahogany credenza, which proudly displayed a PlayStation, a Nintendo, and a Wii station, as well as various controllers for each. In the corner, a drum set and two guitars for Rock Band quietly waited. The other half of the room was occupied by a billiards table, with a rack of cue sticks tucked away in the corner. David gave a slight smile as he tried to imagine Erin in this room, shooting pool or playing bass on Rock Band.

Taking another draught of his cooling coffee, he returned to the living room, gazing at the backyard. The bright blooms in the flowerbeds swayed gently, calling to him; the sun had risen enough to spill over the rooftop and onto the stone patio; it was the perfect spring day. He reached for the doorknob, then remembered Erin's warning about the house alarm. The allegory of the situation was not lost on him—Erin, like her house, beckoned him, played a siren song for all the deepest parts of his being, and yet, like some wicked queen in a fairytale, her need for security and certainty kept him locked away from her.

But this was no ordinary fairytale. David knew that he could not simply charge in, armor flashing and white steed neighing to the heavens in defiance and bravery. No, there was no knight, no savior in this fairytale—the only person who could release Erin and break the spell was Erin herself. He could only look on and offer his support from the sidelines, holding his breath and hoping against all hope that she proved victorious.

Less than fifty feet away, the blonde combination of damsel, knight, and evil queen was finally stirring. Anna was perched on the edge of the bed, lightly patting her mother's feet to further shake her into reality.

"What time is it?" Erin mumbled, squinting at the light streaming through the window.

"Almost seven," Anna answered. She cast a conspiratorial look over her shoulder before adding, "Agent Rossi has been awake since 6:15. He's wandering the house now."

"Wandering the house?" Erin blanched, sitting up suddenly.

"I told him that it was OK," Anna admitted, slightly concerned by her mother's reaction. "It was OK, wasn't it? I mean, it's not like he's a NARC, right?"

"It has nothing to do with his title," Erin sighed. "Besides, even if a Narcotics Officer were in the house, we wouldn't have any reason to be concerned."

"Right," her daughter rolled he eyes. "Because Chris  _totally_  never kept a stash of pot—"

"Anna Claire." Erin's tone held enough warning to cut her off.

"Well, Tara's on her way to pick me up." Anna easily changed the subject, leaning over to plant a quick kiss on her mother's forehead.

"Tara?"

"It's her turn to drive to school. We're carpooling to save the environment, remember?" The teen stood and flipped her dark blonde hair over her shoulder.

Erin simply smiled and waved her daughter off. A few moments later, she heard the rapid beeping as Anna punched in the alarm code. The door opened and shut, and for the first time, she was truly alone with David Rossi, who was apparently roaming her house.

She grabbed a light sweater from the bench at the foot of her bed, wrapping it protectively around her as she peered cautiously out the door. The kitchen and dining room were empty, so she moved to the living room.

There he was, standing in her living room, holding a cup of coffee and smiling blissfully at the serene spring morning. Her chest tightened at the realization that he looked  _so right_ —he fit here, in her home and in her life, just as easily as he'd slipped under her skin all those years ago, just as effortlessly as he'd claimed her heart long before she even knew. It was both scary and wonderful. Again.

David heard the pad of bare feet on hardwood and turned to the sound. Erin stood in the foyer, a soft, timid smile on her face. Her face was bare, her hair uncoiffed, and she actually looked younger, refreshed.

"Good morning," she stepped into the room, her arms still wrapped protectively around herself.

"Good morning," he returned, matching her low tone. He gestured to the backyard with his coffee mug, "Lovely view."

She gave a small hum of agreement as she came to stand beside him, her gaze turning to the yard as well. There was a beat of silence as they simply shared one another's company (that was one of the things that David liked the most about them—they never had to constantly fill the spaces and silences with words and small talk and other anxious little things, because they were comfortable enough to simply  _be_  with each other).

"You don't eat breakfast, do you?" Erin asked, though she was fairly certain of the answer.

"No," he replied easily.

She glanced over at the now half-empty mug in his hand, her tone lightly laced with amusement as she drawled, "Do you have the time to actually sit and drink your coffee?"

He looked over at her, saw the twinkle in those grey-green eyes, and played along. He checked his watch, although he knew that he did have the time. "Well, I suppose I do…I mean, if my section chief asks me to sit and drink coffee with her, can I really refuse?"

Her expression suddenly softened. "Your section chief isn't asking you. Your friend is."

He understood the unspoken rule—this was Erin's home, her sanctuary, and when she was here, she wasn't Section Chief Strauss, and he wasn't SSA Rossi. They were simply David and Erin. She had even gone so far as to use the word  _friend_ , although he wasn't certain that simple word truly encompassed all that they were and had been. Still, it was a charming notion, and one that he was definitely interested in pursuing, so he offered another warm smile, his tone dipping even lower, "Then I really can't refuse, can I?"

She smiled again, moving back to the kitchen to get her own cup of coffee. He followed, obediently handing over his mug when she gestured for it, so that she could replenish his supply. With an uncharacteristically playful flair, Erin opened the French doors and motioned for David to exit onto the patio.

They settled into the worn cushions of the patio chairs, Erin tucking her left leg under her and letting her right swing freely, which made David smile.

"What?" She cocked her head to the side quizzically.

"You're just very uninhibited," he replied, his tone laced with amusement.

"It's my home," she responded simply, giving a slight shrug of her shoulder. She wasn't being defensive, merely stating a fact, and David accepted it. She clutched her coffee with both hands, her grey eyes searching his dark brown ones as she gently asked, "Did you sleep well last night?"

He knew what she was really asking ( _did you dream of the children, did you see the faces of all the ones you've lost, did I slip away too soon, did you have a nightmare that I wasn't there to soothe away?_ ), and he felt a certain sense of wonder as he replied, "I did."

It was strange, because normally, he wouldn't have slept at all. Normally, he would have retired to his den, to smoke a cigar with Mudgie curled up at his feet, watching the hours tick by on the clock until dawn. It was a pattern that he would repeat until he practically collapsed with fatigue, and eventually, he'd see enough new gruesome images to push back the ones that currently haunted his mind, and sometimes, despite their horror, they allowed him to sleep again, because they were different.

Last night, he hadn't had the slightest trouble drifting to sleep, and when he did dream, it was a dim, soft thing, filled with the scent of honeysuckle. He took a moment to gaze the source of his restful slumber, who now had her eyes closed and her face upturned to the morning sun. He found himself wishing for a thousand more quiet moments just like this one—Erin happy and relaxed and still a little sleepy, his own body feeling rested and rejuvenated by her tender care, the world quiet and warm and full of color.

"Anna says you were wandering the house," she stated, returning her attention to her coffee.

"I hope you don't mind."

She gave a slight shrug, "Of course not. The housecleaner already came this week."

He smiled at how well Anna had predicted her mother's response.

"I did find something that surprised me," he admitted.

"Oh?" The tone of her voice suggested that she already knew what it was.

"I really hadn't pegged you as a fan, Erin," he teased, motioning towards her study. "I'm pretty sure you have every single book I've written or contributed to."

"I do," she confessed with a light blush. Her gaze wandered out to the blooming landscape as she admitted, "I felt like I had to read them…to make sure, you know. To make sure they didn't mention certain things."

"I would never do that to you, Erin," he replied softly. She nodded in agreement.

"I know. You never mentioned me at all, in fact."

"I thought you would have wanted it that way."

"I would have," she agreed. Her face scrunched up as she tried to explain the conflicting feelings, "It was strange, reading about your life, knowing I was right there with you during some of those cases, and…and it was like you'd rewritten everything, written me out completely. I mean, when you wrote about our huge fight in New York, you simply called it 'a tough tactical decision that took hours to resolve.' It was just strange, knowing you were writing about a memory of me without actually writing about it."

"I didn't mention you because I didn't want anyone to get suspicious," he said quietly. It was his turn to look away as he added, "And, because I am a jealous man when it comes to you, Erin Strauss."

She looked at him, "That makes absolutely no sense whatsoever."

He turned back to her, leaning closer as his voice dipped into a low tone, his eyes locking onto hers with a sudden intensity, "I didn't mention your name or write anything about you because everything that happened between us—every fight, every good moment, every bad one, every  _second_ —belonged to me. I covet those memories; I covet every touch, every glance, every nuance of you, and I'll be damned if I share them—share even one  _fraction_  of them—with someone else. They're mine, Erin. They were the only thing that I got to claim from all that happened between us, and I couldn't share them. I couldn't."

The dark passion in his eyes filled Erin with an equally dark heat, as her throat suddenly became very dry and all use of language completely escaped her. The fervor behind his words was surprising and undeniably arousing, but this was neither the time nor the place for the feelings bubbling inside her chest—this was a beautiful quiet morning after a sweet quiet evening, and neither of them had the time for a round of morning sexercise by the pool (though she kept that particular idea for a later date, hopefully).

She turned away, the blush on her cheeks unmistakable as she cleared her throat, "That's probably the sweetest damned thing you've ever said to me, David Rossi."

"It's true. Every word of it."

"I believe you." The quiet conviction of her voice filled David with a certain softness—she didn't avoid talking about their relationship anymore, she was openly acknowledging it here, in the broad light of day, in her backyard as they sipped coffee and enjoyed the springtime sun.

He nodded, accepting whatever small token that she'd just given him, taking it as a sign for the best. Having poured his heart out enough for the morning, he decided to change to subject to more mundane things.

"You've put a lot of work into this," he commented, referring to the carefully ordered flowerbeds and the well-kept lawn.

"Gardening clears my head," she admitted. Her smile deepened, "My mother always had a garden; every year, we'd spend hours helping her clear out the weeds and trimming back hedges—I hated it back then, but when I grew up, I found that I missed it."

He heard the nostalgia in her voice and suddenly remembered that her mother had passed away eleven years ago. Normally he wouldn't remember how long it had been (gods, he wasn't even 100% sure that he knew her birthday), but the event surrounding her mother's passing had been forever ingrained in his memory.

* * *

**July 2002. Seattle, Washington.**

"Yes. Yes, I understand." Erin's voice sounded flat and detached to her own ears, as if someone else was speaking, though she could feel the heavy weight of her tongue as she forced it to move.

"Erin?" Paul's voice was soft yet strong, pulling her back to reality. "Erin, do you want me to call and arrange a flight back home for you?"

"No." She slowly looked around the wide open airport. "No, I'm still at the airport. I can change my ticket. First, I need to call the Seattle field office and tell them what's happened."

This was supposed to be a quick, routine trip. Her old colleague Mike Mikkelsen was finally retiring, and she'd been sent by the director to give a few remarks on his behalf. She was going to be back on a plane by tomorrow night and then on her way to family vacation in Nantucket the morning after. But now none of that mattered as her world spun out of control with a slow frightening certainty.

"Ok. Let me know when you figure everything out. We'll come pick you up when you land."

"Ok."

"Erin?"

"Hmm?"

"I am so sorry."

"I know." She was too numb to even cringe at how awful that sounded, but she knew that Paul would understand her meaning, that he would look past the heavy wooden words and see the shock and grief underneath (he always did that, he always forgave the flatness and the ineptitudes, always simply understood, because he was sweet and kind and dependable in every way).

"I love you," his voice dipped even lower, almost so low that she couldn't hear him.

This was probably the part where she should cry, but she didn't. She simply replied, "I love you, too. I'll call you soon."

Erin hung up, staring down at the cellphone in her hand as she stood in the middle of the baggage claim, people and bags and carts milling around her, swirling and eddying in a whirlpool of beings and belongings, all completely unaware of Erin or how her life just changed in a matter of two minutes.

Her mother was dead.

She still couldn't comprehend the idea—when she deboarded the plane, there had been a voicemail from her youngest brother, Andrew. She'd immediately heard something dancing at the edges of his voice, and her stomach had turned into a cauldron of fear and worry as she'd called him back. When he answered, there were tears in his voice, and her fears were confirmed before he'd even spoken the words.

_Brain aneurysm. Mother. On the way to the house in Nantucket_. Erin understood all these words, and yet, when Andrew said them together, they didn't seem to fit, didn't seem cohesive or correct or even possible. They became a jumbled, tumbled mess inside her brain, and she'd stopped, eyes fixed blankly ahead as her mind tried to compute the meaning of these syllables strung together in such an odd pattern.

Of course, as soon as she hung up, she began to call home, only to be interrupted by an incoming call from Paul (he'd always had perfect timing like that, had always been almost psychically connected and able to tell when she needed him the most). Apparently, her sister, Carole, had called their house in D.C. earlier that morning, and Paul had been waiting for her flight to land so that he could call her.

She scrolled through her contacts and found the number for Clark Greysmith, SAC of the Seattle Field Office. When he answered with that deep, warm voice that often reminded her of her father, Erin felt a slight tightening in her throat, but she pushed the feeling back and quickly informed him that there had been a death in the family and that she would like to return to D.C. immediately, if he could find a replacement. He responded with his usual compassion and gentleness, told her that of course he could find a replacement, and softly said that she was in his thoughts and prayers.

Again, it was probably the appropriate time to tear up at the kindness, but she didn't. Erin had learned a long time ago not to be surprised by her own lack of emotional attachment, and frankly, she was glad that she wasn't reduced to a blubbering fool in the middle of the baggage claim.

She tucked her cell back into her handbag, retrieved her luggage from the carousel, and with heavy sigh, made her way to the ticket line. It was only late afternoon, but the next available flight to D.C. wasn't until the morning. She booked the flight, traded in her old ticket, collected her things, and hailed a cab.

She was staying in the same hotel that she'd stayed during her last trip to Seattle, almost a decade ago. She couldn't admit, even to herself, that there was more to it than the simple fact that she liked the architecture or the friendly staff—this was a pilgrimage of sorts, a return to some profane Holy Land that only existed in the whisper of sheets and the stains of sins past.

She'd even been able to book the same room (morbid, disgusting, horrible person that she was, as if she actually wanted to relive that base fall from grace), and had alarmingly realized that she hadn't felt the slightest pang of regret for her decision. She deserved to rot in hell for what she'd done, for betraying her family and her vows and her morals. And yet, if repentance meant wishing that it had never happened and truly regretting her actions, then gods above, she'd just have to stay in hell.

Of course, none of that mattered now, because the cause of her lost sanctity was forever removed from her life—he'd been retired from the Bureau for four years now, and after the horrible, hateful way that things had ended between them (which was probably part of the reason he left), she'd quietly accepted the fact that their paths would probably never cross again.

At least that's what she assumed.

Of course, she'd forgotten the old adage about what happened when one assumed.


	9. Across the Mountaintop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is RATED M. And much darker than previous M chapter. Here be dragons, ye were warned.

_"Can't you see what your gentle insanities do to me?-Rob me of anger and give me despair! Blows and abuse I can take and give back again, but tenderness I cannot bear!"_

_~Joe Darion (Man of La Mancha)._

* * *

**July 2002. Seattle, Washington.**

"Honestly, Dave, I'll never understand why you chose to stay here," Myra, a sliver of a girl with an attitude the size of Texas, wrinkled her nose in disdain as she surveyed the hotel lobby from their table in the hotel bar.

"It has charm," David Rossi replied smoothly, taking a sip of his drink and casting a glance around the bar. There was a lovely lady across the room who'd been smiling at him for the last fifteen minutes, and he briefly thought that she might have been at his book signing earlier that day.

"Next time, I'm booking the hotel," Myra gave a slight shake of her head as she downed the last of her martini. David simply smiled at his young assistant, who obviously didn't share his love of charming old locales—although this one held a deeper allure, one which he'd never explain to the pragmatic brunette seated across the table. In some ways, Myra reminded him of Erin. She was practical, not one for flowery words or romantic gestures, dedicated to schedules and her PDA. She was smart as a whip with a sharp tongue to match, but she lacked that special something extra that Erin had which made her bite so much more pleasurable to bear. Still, she was an excellent assistant; she kept David on-track and on his toes whenever he was on book tours.

The younger woman continued her assessment of the establishment, her dark eyes sweeping over the lobby once more. She saw something that interested her, because she suddenly sat up.

"Now  _that_  has charm," her voice became warmer.

"What?" David looked up from his drink with an amused smile.

Myra nodded towards the lobby. "I don't usually do older women, but she looks absolutely delicious."

David turned to see the object of his assistant's lust, and he felt his heart stop. The woman at the front desk had her back turned to them, but he'd know those hips and that light blonde head anywhere. He told himself that he couldn't be sure, so he simply waited and watched.

Myra's target turned back around, key card in hand as she stooped to pick up her bags again, and David's hopes were confirmed. For whatever ungodly reason, Erin Strauss was back in Seattle.

"I know that woman," his voice was filled with wonder.

"You do?" Myra looked at him incredulously.

"She's an old colleague from the Bureau," he replied.

This earned him a devilish grin from his assistant, "Think she carries her cuffs with her?"

"She's administration now," he shot Myra a disdainful look.

"So...that's a no?"

"A definite no."

"That's alright," Myra grinned again, wagging her eyebrows playfully. "I brought my own."

That was a mental image that David Rossi stored away for future reference. Right now, he was too busy following Erin's movements as she relinquished her bags to the bellhop, giving a polite smile that didn't reach her eyes.

Something was wrong. Erin, as usual, was moving along smoothly, but there was something just under the surface that screamed that she was about to fall apart at any minute.

"Excuse me," he rose to his feet, feeling like he did the last time he spotted Erin Strauss in this hotel, as if he were part of some strange dream. He couldn't begrudge Myra's attraction to the older woman—Erin's figure was lusciously encased in a moss green wrap dress that only intensified the hue of her grey-green eyes, her feet clad in simple bronze flats that allowed the clean lines of her calves to take center stage. Her hair was pulled back into a low chignon, showing off the delicate structure of her neck and shoulders, which drew attention to the deep v of the dress' neck, accenting her breasts in a way that almost seemed obscene.

Yes, delicious was the perfect description. If it weren't for the sadness in those beautiful eyes, she'd be the epitome of a siren.

She was halfway to the elevator, the bellhop following dutifully behind her (and greatly admiring the view, David noticed), when David approached. He suddenly realized that she might not be glad to see him—after all, their last words had been horrible and bitter—and he pulled back, uncertain of whether or not he should intrude. She pressed the elevator call button and he saw her shoulders sag as she gave a heavy sigh. That was all the encouragement he needed—if nothing else, she could at least yell at him, which used to always make her feel better.

He sidled up to her, tucking his hands nervously in his coat pockets as he glanced over, trying to keep his voice as casual and nonchalant as possible, "So, what's a lady like you doing in a place like this?"

She turned to him, and in the briefest of flashes, David saw an entire range of emotions pass through her eyes (she was uncertain, then shocked to see him, then there was fear, because obviously she hadn't forgotten the venom behind their last meeting, and then there was relief, because he didn't seem angry, and then there was something softer, something warmer, and that was the something that gave David hope).

Erin Strauss felt as if she'd just been struck by a bolt of lightning. On today, of all days, at all times and in all places, David Rossi had chosen this moment to re-enter her life. If Erin didn't already believe there was a god, she certainly did now—and now she knew that he was a French absurdist with a sadistic sense of humor.

"David," she hated her voice for sounding so breathless. "What...what are you doing here?"

"In Seattle for a book tour," he motioned back to Myra, who by now was positively glued to the scene unfolding before her. He gave a small smile to Erin, "As you know, this is my favorite hotel."

"Yes." She was distracted by the dark-haired vixen who was staring at them, looking as if she might devour David Rossi whole. Of course he'd brought some hot young thing on tour with him—Erin stamped down a wave of irritation. All she wanted was to go to her hotel room, where she could be alone and perhaps finally cry over the loss of her mother, and here was David Rossi, popping back in just to show off his newest lover or wife or what-the-hell-ever.

She really wanted to punch him in the face right now.

As usual, the object of her anger was completely oblivious—he was too busy taking her bags from the bellhop, handing the young man a generous tip and dismissing him with a wave of his hand. The elevator opened and David followed her in, acting for all the world as if he belonged here, with her.

"Are you sure your little friend won't mind?" Erin asked flatly, studiously avoiding his gaze so that he couldn't see the anger in her eyes.

"Myra can handle herself just fine," he replied easily, a little uncertain of why Erin's mood had shifted so suddenly. He took a moment to observe her, to take in the lines and shadows and contours that he'd missed so much over the past four years (even though he hadn't realized just how much until now, until he was struck once again by the nearness of her).

On the next floor, the doors opened again and more passengers filled the elevator car. Out of habit, Erin immediately shifted towards him, allowing more room for their new companions. Her hip brushed against his hand and she pulled back, giving a soft apology and rearranging the hem of her skirt. David simply smiled and used the silence as a chance to further examine the blonde specimen beside him.

She looked good. Well-rested. She was dyeing her hair an even lighter shade of blonde these days, but it suited her. There were a few more lines around the corners of her eyes and mouth, and he suddenly realized that she was over 40 now—it seemed odd, because he always tended to think of her as the fresh-faced 26-year-old field agent whom he'd met in a smoky bar at an FBI Christmas party. Had they really known each other that long?

She swiveled, turning her face upwards so that her gaze locked onto his, "Stop."

"Stop what?" He asked quietly, although he knew the answer.

"Stop profiling me," she whispered back, trying not to be overheard by the rest of the occupants.

"A man can't appreciate a lovely view?"

"Not when he's got some hot-to-trot twenty-something waiting downstairs," she retorted. Erin generally wasn't the jealous type (especially when it came to David Rossi, because, after all, she had no claim to the man), but it was an easy excuse, a way to channel the stress and sorrow into anger (because anger was an emotion that she could deal with, it was something she could handle, something she could understand and control so much better than grief). And as usual, David Rossi made the perfect victim.

So that was what the sudden coldness was about. David couldn't help but grin as he thought about just how far off the mark Erin was—yes, Myra was 'hot-to-trot', but it wasn't because of him.

"I'm glad you find this amusing." Erin obviously didn't share his humor. Her irritation simply made him laugh, which did nothing to alleviate the scowl on her face. The elevator arrived at her floor and they exited, traveling down the hall towards Erin's room.

"This looks familiar." David commented.

The look she shot him could have withered an oak tree. She suddenly hated herself for being so weak, for giving in to the manic desire to be in the same hotel room from one night almost nine years ago. Of course, he would remember those kinds of details, of course, he would put two-and-two together and realize what a pathetic hopeless romantic she truly was.

David did recognize the room number, but by now, he'd sensed enough of the various emotions rolling off Erin's silent frame to realize that it was probably best not to mention it. Still, there was a warmth in his chest at what seemed like a sign of divine providence.

She opened the door easily, holding it for him so that he could enter with her bags. He set them on the edge of the bed, turning to her with a small smile. The angry creature from the hallway was gone. At the doorframe stood a small, incredibly lonely looking thing, whose size seemed to shrink as she wrapped her arms around herself, biting her bottom lip as her eyes stared vacantly at the carpet.

His mind flashed the same thought that had occurred to him in the lobby:  _Something's wrong_.

"Erin," he said softly, that single word containing the compassion and confusion and tenderness that he could never express (because she would never allow him to, because doing so would be tantamount to admitting and remembering all the times before, because things were too uncertain and unstable right now).

She physically flinched at the sound.

"Don't." She spoke through gritted teeth, and he understood the rest of the command ( _don't pity me, don't profile me, don't look at me like that, don't recognize me, don't remember, don't notice, don't ask_ ).

And because he always obeyed when she asked for such things, he simply nodded and began to leave. She moved away whenever he came to the door, retreating further into the room. His heart was heavy with the realization that this would probably be the last time he saw her again for many more years, but her next words stopped his heart completely.

"Stay. Please."

Her voice sounded so small, so broken and desperate and completely unlike Erin Strauss. He turned around slowly, his face filled with uncertainty. Her back was still to him, her arms still wrapped around herself as if they were the only thing holding her together. He knew how much it had taken her just to utter those two words—how much she had to let go, how much she had to push past, how much pride she had to swallow, and how many fears and insecurities she had to overcome. She was reaching out for him, as best she could. He could sense that, could sense the doubt and the sorrow and the deeper something else that seemed to pour from her body in waves.

He quietly shut the door and moved back towards her, noticing her shoulders stiffen at his approach, as if she was steeling herself, like the patient taking a deep breath before the doctor administers the needle. Gently, cautiously, he placed his hands on her shoulders.

She shouldn't have asked him to stay. She knew that. She knew it before she even asked, knew it with every fiber of her being, even though every fiber of her being was crying out for him from the second he appeared beside her in the hotel lobby, like some guardian demon, quietly waiting to overtake her soul once more. For some reason, her mind flashed back to a line of Hebrew poetry that she'd read in college:  _Across the mountaintops, I saw you, and my heart flew across the desert to your hands, my soul went out to you, and I remembered your name because I loved you…._

She couldn't remember the rest of the poem, but she'd felt that sentiment the moment she'd turned to look into those dark eyes and the rest of the crowd in the lobby had seemed to disappear. When she was younger, she'd thought it was the most beautiful thing that she'd ever read, and she'd hoped that one day she'd truly know that feeling—now that it was here, she realized that it was the most terrifying thing in the world. The mere warmth of his hands on her shoulders was enough to unravel her carefully-contained emotions. She no longer had control (the one thing she needed, wanted, had spent her life and her energy obtaining) because her stupid little heart suddenly felt the need to leap from her chest at the sight of a man, who during their last conversation (argument, that's what it really was) had called her an unworthy, unqualified tramp and had broken her heart. She was weak, pitiful, pathetic, a strange kind of junkie who couldn't refuse the call of her next fix.

Her self-loathing didn't alter the fact that she needed him. She needed him because he was someone who knew her deeply, who saw her flaws and accepted her strangeness, and right now, he also didn't know about the aching hole that would be forever in her heart. Right now, he was someone who knew her before her mother's death, who also still didn't know about her mother's death. Erin was a master of avoidance, and reality was something that she didn't want to deal with until she was safely back in D.C. Right now, she wanted to be Former Erin, with two alive and loving parents, with a picture-perfect life and no reason to mourn. She didn't want tears or condolences or sad searching questions about how she was doing. She wanted to devolve into blissful oblivion, wanted to feel anything besides the absolute hysteria that was clawing its way up the back of her throat at the realization that the one woman whom she thought could never die was now gone forever. David could help her sink into oblivion. He could do that for her. She knew that he could. More importantly, she knew that he would, if only she asked.

David watched these thoughts and emotions tumble across her classical profile, and he wanted to ask what was wrong, but he hesitated—Erin was the type of person who would share things when she was ready to share, and trying to get her to open up before then would only push her further back into her own shell. He'd never seen her like this, and with the added unresolved tension of their rocky parting four years ago, he felt like he was on foreign ground.

She turned her face to the window, the corner of her mouth turning downward in a sour moue, "Don't look at me like that, David."

Despite her expression, his name on her lips sounded like a caress. With another heavy sigh, she tilted her head back, resting against his chest, her eyes closed as she whispered, "I don't want you to look at me like that. I want you to pretend that nothing has happened, and things are exactly the way they were."

He wanted to counter,  _But something has happened, and things aren't the way they were_. However, he held his tongue, because he knew that Erin never could deal with things directly, and he didn't want to hurt her any further.

David would do anything she asked. She knew that. Perhaps it was cruel, using this knowledge in such a way. Perhaps that was the point. Perhaps it was justified. Her hands went to the tie at her waist, pulling at the strings and sliding the dress off her shoulders.

He took a step back, removing his hands as she shrugged the material off her body. She wore a lilac full slip underneath, the late evening sun poured through the windows and revealed her silhouette through the thin fabric. She still didn't turn to face him as she quietly requested, "Please. Make me forget."

"Forget what?" He couldn't stop himself from asking as he moved closer again, this time his hands resting of the bare flesh of her upper arms.

"All of it," came her simple reply ( _every sweet memory from this room, the soft creation of our son, the fear after, the sadness between us, the fights, the loss, my loss, my world, my life, all of it_ ).

He felt a pang in his own heart at her words, "Erin—"

"David, please," she interrupted, not wanting to hear the pity and uncertainty in his voice. She arched her neck, allowing him access as she reached up, snaking her hand around the back of his head and pulling his mouth to her flesh. As expected (as ordered, as desired, as usual, as predetermined by his need to please her), David complied, tenderly following the curve of her neck down the slope of her shoulder, feeling a small measure of accomplishment when he heard her sigh again, felt her fingers curling in his hair, felt her shift again, moving her body closer to his.

His hands moved down, tracing the curved indention of her waist, moving around to the softness of her abdomen, pulling her tightly against him, feeling the sharp edges of her shoulder blades pressing into his chest. He buried his nose in the warmth of her neck, taking in the smell of her hair (foreign yet familiar, as if everything and nothing had changed), trying to lose himself in the simple rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed, the softness of her skin, tautness of her shoulders, trying to simply rediscover this continent that hadn't been explored by him in nearly a decade—but none of this stopped the voice in his head from wondering,  _What are you running from, Erin?_

The tenderness behind David's touch was almost enough to dissolve Erin completely, but that was the last thing she wanted. Tenderness would only breed more tenderness, and that would lower her defenses, allowing those emotions to come crashing to the surface. She didn't want that. She didn't need that. What she needed was blood and fire and teeth and talons and things that steeled and hardened her, things that hurt her body to take away the pain in her soul. It was something that she would never ask of Paul, and again, perhaps that was the point.

She turned to him for the first time, pulling his lips to hers, pillaging his mouth with her own tongue and teeth. He didn't pull away, he simply returned her ardor, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hips. There was the bitter copper taste of blood in his mouth and he wasn't sure if it was his or hers.

Erin released him, panting slightly—the look in her eyes actually scared David, because he'd never seen it before. With shaking hands (shaking from what, he wondered, lust, anger, mania, hysteria?), she pushed his sports coat off his shoulders, quickly turning her attention to the buttons of his shirt, which soon joined the growing puddle of clothing on the floor.

David passively allowed her to undress him, his dark eyes never leaving her face as he tried to discern the emotions going through her mind. His hand reached out to caress her blonde head, but she jerked away as if it were a red-hot poker iron.

"I don't want that," she said curtly, turning her attention to the belt of his pants.

"Then what do you want, Erin?" He asked, fearing the answer.

"I've already told you," her voice was filled with irritation. "I want you to make me forget."

"Erin, I think we need to talk first—"

She gave a whine of frustration, suddenly abandoning her mission of disrobing him as she threw her hands out in exasperation, "I don't  _want_  to talk!"

She stepped back, kicked off her ballet flats, reached under her slip and pulled off the lace boy-shorts underneath, ripped the pins from her hair with a vehemence that frightening, "I don't want to think; I don't want to talk; I don't want you to think and I don't want you to talk—I just want you to fuck me."

She moved forward again, grabbing the belt loops of his pants and pulling him towards the bed as she sat down. There was a moment of stillness and silence as she simply looked up at him, waiting for his next response. Her hair was wild and her mouth still red from her attack on his lips, tears glistened in her eyes and David was certain that he'd never seen her so close to an absolute breakdown.

David knew that he'd do anything she asked when she was like this, because he'd do anything he could to save her from this strange and scary state. She knew this and he knew that she knew this. She laid back on the bed, her eyes never leaving his.

"Alright, bella," he said softly (using the same voice he used during hostage negotiations, which did not go unnoticed by Erin), taking a moment to remove his shoes before reaching down to the place still barely concealed by the hem of her slip—he could feel the heat radiating off her thighs, but when she opened her legs wider, he found that she was barely wet.

"You're not ready yet," he retorted gently.

"I don't care," her voice was filled with tears and frustration.

"I can't do this, bella," he admitted softly. "Not like this."

She turned her face to the window again. He leaned forward, dipping his fingers in what little moisture there was (silently thankful when she shifted at the touch, because it meant that she hadn't left him completely), and trailing his way up to her clit, increasing pressure as he began to make small circular motions. She shifted again, biting her lip and holding her breath as the tension began to slowly coil inside of her. His free hand traced up the line of her hip, under the silk of her slip, over the ridge of her hip bone, across the soft plain of her stomach, to the jagged cliffs of her ribcage. His eyes were trained on her face, watching and waiting for some kind of sign. She remained flat and lifeless, staring vacantly out the window, like some poor imitation of the creature he knew.

"What's wrong?" He asked quietly.

"I don't want this," she replied stolidly, sounding every bit like a sulky child.

David fought back a wave of frustration as he asked, yet again, "Then what  _do_  you want?"

Erin knew exactly what she wanted, but she was never good at asking for such things—at least not with words. So she abandoned speech and went straight to action. She sat up suddenly, whipping her open palm across his face. There was a moment of shocked silence as David's brain tried to register what had just happened. In all their fights, she'd never actually hit him before. He looked down, into the defiant eyes that glowered back at him, the searing heat of their gaze much more intense than the warmth he felt rushing to the site of the blow.

She pushed him, causing him to stumble back as she rose to her feet. Then she was against him again, her hands capturing his face as her tongue invaded his mouth with frightening intensity. David pulled her away, "Erin, what are you doing?"

She jerked away from his hold, but she came back to him, her hand easily slipping beneath the band of his boxers. Her fingers easily found him and she began to stroke his member, her voice breathless as she asked, "Don't you remember how it was the first time, in New York? Don't you want that again? After all those fights, all those moments, haven't you ever just wanted to have it just like this?"

She didn't voice the rest of her thoughts ( _how it was in New York, when it was just fucking, when you didn't care and neither did I, when things were simple, when I wasn't the mother of your child, when we weren't in the strange uneasy place we are now_ ). She gave a smug smile as she felt him stiffen beneath her fingers. She dragged her open mouth across his chest, her teeth pushing into his flesh barely, just enough to be felt, her breath hot and heavy on his skin as she continued, "Don't lie to me, David. You know you have. You've thought about it, you've wondered how it would feel just to lose control like that again. You know, you know, you  _know_  you have."

His throat tightened and he couldn't deny the effect her feral nature was having on him—but then again, every nuance of Erin, from the hue of her eyes to the softness of her skin to the shade of her voice, was like a drug cocktail that had been carefully tailored to him, as if the Devil himself had crafted a Trojan horse just for David Rossi. She'd never been this aggressive before (not even the time in New York), and he probably would have fully enjoyed this new side of Erin, if his instincts weren't telling him that she was trying to deal with some emotional trauma in a very unhealthy way.

"Not like this," he kept his tone gentle as his hand clasped her wrist, pulling her hand away from his cock (though he instantly regretted it, he knew there was something deeper that needed to be dealt with first). He allowed himself a moment of truth as he added softly, "I never wanted to hurt you like this."

The moment he'd pulled her hand away, her expression turned to one of complete bewilderment and hurt. Now it was her turn for her voice to soften, breaking with tears and desperation as she simply stated, "But I want you to."

"I can't."

Her gaze fell to the floor, and his heart fell with it. He gently wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest, resting his chin atop her blonde head. He expected her to finally cave in, to finally dissolve into tears and tell him what the hell was going on.

But as always, Erin Strauss never did anything according to his expectations.

The instant she felt the warmth of David's bare chest, she exploded into a fury, pushing away from him, slapping away his attempts to hold her again. Instinctively, he grabbed her wrists, but she still pulled away. With a quick jerk, he pulled her into his chest, pinning her arms behind her back.

A beat passed as they simply stared at each other, two fighters sizing up their opponent, weighing the determination they saw in the other's eyes, looking for a weakness. Of course, it was Erin who found her target first.

"Then leave," she leaned further into his chest, taunting him. "Leave so I can find someone else who will. I'm sure I could find at least five guys at the bar downstairs that wouldn't mind getting a little rough—you know it, David,  _you_ know better than anyone the type of people I could find."

There was a hardness in her eyes that told him that she would do it. It was a bullish move, but one that fulfilled its design—Erin could see the moment of capitulation in David Rossi's face, because, as she'd pointed out, he did know better than anyone the type of strange and sadistic bastards that a gorgeous, depressed masochist could find in a city like this.

_She's not running from something. She's trying to purge it from her mind completely_. The thought hit David with sudden clarity as he looked into those grey-green orbs staring up at him. Whatever had happened to put that sadness in her eyes wasn't something that she was trying to avoid—it was something that she was trying to obliterate.

If he agreed to what Erin was asking, he wouldn't be any better than those men. But at least he could know that she wasn't being hurt any more than she wanted to be. He could know that the hand that hurt her did so out of loving obedience, out of some twisted desire to truly take away the pain in her heart.

She remained silent as she watched David slowly succumb to his decision—unlike David, once she knew that she had won, she didn't push any further. She simply waited, her heartbeat quickening as each second brought her closer to exactly what she wanted and needed from this man. He quietly released his hold on her wrists. With the slow reassurance of a victor, she placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him again—it didn't hold the anger or the force of the last shove, but it was a volley, a test shot to see how he'd react. She advanced, moving to push him again, but he recaptured her wrists, pulling her into his chest.

Her tears were gone, the blush had returned to her cheeks, the pulse point on her neck was humming at a rapid pace again—David told himself that even if he hated what he was about to do, at least he could be certain that it was what she wanted.

He hated her in that moment, hated the power she held over him, the calculating way she'd manipulated his affections to get what she wanted, the way she'd used her supreme knowledge of him to goad him into this darkness. He hated himself for being so weak, for always giving in to her demands, for allowing himself to care in the first place, for opening that little window to his soul that let in this sharp-edged creature, hated the fact that despite his mind's reluctance, his body was already pounding, begging for the release that he knew her curves would afford.

He let go of her wrists, shoving her back onto the bed. She sat up slightly, still poised for whatever may come. He kept his eyes locked on hers as he slowly pulled off his pants. Realizing that she'd finally, truly won, she laid back, closing her eyes in silent gratitude.

He pulled her back to the edge of her bed, bracing his knees against the mattress, grabbing her hips as he took her roughly, and he hated every second of it—hated the harsh friction (though thankfully she was wetter than she'd been at first), hated the feel of her being bruised, hated the rigidness of her body as she internalized the pain, the way she bit her lip to hold back her cries, hated how she wouldn't let him caress her, hated how his own body reacted to the entire charade.

Erin could feel the loathing radiating off David's frame in waves, and part of her mind was actually grateful, because this would be her new memory of this room, this hotel, this city—the pain and the sadness and the loathing, not the warmth and the love and the softness of their last encounter. The look on his face was unsettling, because she knew that he was only doing this because she'd bullied him into in, and she felt a quivering in her stomach as she realized that she'd just created yet another gap between them, had burned another bridge on the strange road to their mutual redemption. So she simply closed her eyes, willing herself to focus only on the rough pull, the hard weight of his fingers gripping the flesh of her hips.

She felt a sob rising in her chest and she fought it as best she could, clamping her lips together tightly. David saw this, knew that whatever storm inside her mind was about to break, so he dug his fingers deeper into her skin, pushed harder, pushed her closer to whatever strange release she needed. He could hear the small whimpers of pain that she kept locked in her throat, saw how she pressed her lips together so tightly that the skin around them became absolutely white, and suddenly his anger and loathing and hatred turned into sorrow.  _Don't you know this won't take the real pain away, bella?_

Erin held her breath, because it was the only way to keep that tidal wave of grief at bay. She was ruining everything, and she knew it, felt it with every part of her being. Regardless of how things had ended four years ago, what happened in this room before that was still a beautiful thing—and now she'd ruined it. She'd destroyed that lovely memory with a single-minded sense of nihilism that had followed her for her entire life, she was defiling her mother's loss because she couldn't even shed a damn tear unless someone else forced her to through physical pain. For years, she'd overheard the things whispered about her ( _frigid, stone-cold bitch, ice queen_ ) and now she'd discovered that the rumors all seemed to be true—she'd become a hard, inanimate object, incapable of emotion or feeling or anything at all. And her lack of humanity had pushed her to destroy yet another sweet, tender thing—David's feelings for her—and now he would hate her, just like she deserved to be hated, just like she hated herself.  _Now he sees me as I really am_.

The cry ripped through her lungs and she couldn't keep the tears away any longer. It was the sight of those rivulets running down her cheeks, the skittering rise and fall of her chest that broke David Rossi's iron-clad resolve, and he couldn't finish. He pulled out, and as he did, Erin truly began to cry.

"I'm sorry, bella, I can't," he whispered mournfully. She simply rolled to her side, and then the sobs came tumbling from her lungs, devolving into small, pitiful wails as she slowly curled into herself, the force of her grief actually shaking the bed as she finally unleashed the feelings that had been building inside her skin since she'd heard Andrew's soft voice uttering those horrible words in a crowded airport.

David crawled onto the bed, pulling her sobbing, broken frame into his arms as he slowly rocked back and forth. He didn't try to quieten her cries or offer any words of comfort. He just let her cry, let her exorcise whatever ill spirits flooded her chest, let her get it all out.

Her sobs subsided long enough for her to finally choke out, "I have to go back home."

He wasn't sure what that meant, so he simply said, "OK."

"I have to go back home," she repeated, her voice quivering as she added, "Because my mother died this morning, and I have to go back home."

Suddenly, her actions all made sense—she didn't want to go back home, back to the sadness and the certainty of death, back to dark rooms and black mourning cloths and clichés about being in a better place, back to holes in the deep, cold earth and rows of entire lives summed up in a few words chiseled in granite.

David sat up, pulling her into a sitting position as well. Cautiously, she looked at him, the uncertainty written plainly across her face, which was red and mottled from crying. He gently reached forward, cupping her face in his hands as his thumbs wiped away the tears pooled under her eyes. Of course, this caring gesture brought more tears to those green orbs, and David felt his heart break all over again.

She hadn't been angry; she'd been hurting. She hadn't wanted him to cause her pain; she'd wanted to simply get rid of the pain in her heart. He understood that, and he would have gladly done those things for her, if only she'd told him what had happened in the first place.

"You could have just told me, bella," he said softly.

"I didn't want you to know," she replied, quickly adding, "Not at first. I wanted…I just wanted things to be—I don't know—I wanted to have a few more minutes of not knowing and not remembering."

She felt like a bumbling idiot, but he seemed to understand because he simply nodded.

"You want me to make you forget," his voice was barely a whisper. Again, the sadness in those grey-green eyes was enough to tear his heart in two. He wanted to comfort her, to hold her and let her cry and tell her sweet things to mend her soul, but he knew (he knew because she'd told him, because she'd made it crystal clear) that wasn't what she wanted. So instead, he decided that he would do exactly what she wanted (because that's how it always was between them, she set the tone and he followed, because he always twisted and turned himself inside out just to be whatever she wanted, because he always wanted to be whatever she needed, because he couldn't stop himself, no matter how dark or unbalanced or unhealthy or wrong it may be).

"I can still do that," he took a moment to run his fingers through the tangled and tousled blonde halo. His eyes locked onto hers, making sure she understood his words as he gently repeated, "I can still do that."

She seemed doubtful, but she nodded. His eyes remained on hers, as his hands found the hem of her slip, slowly guiding it upwards. She dutifully raised her arms, allowing him to slip the garment over her head. He pulled her closer, and she rested her head on his shoulder as his arms moved around her back, unclasping her bra, which was easily discarded as well.

He sat back, taking a moment to appreciate the form he hadn't seen in almost a decade. Erin blushed slightly, suddenly feeling self-conscious as she realized that she'd aged ten years and bore two more children since that last time he'd seen her naked.

"I suppose it's not much compared to the lithe little girl you've got waiting for you in the bar," she couldn't stop herself from saying it, even though she hated how insecure and needy she sounded.

This time, David didn't laugh. He simply looked at her, "It's not like that with Myra, Erin. She's just my assistant; she tours with me and keeps me on-schedule. That's all."

"But…the way she looked at you when we were at the elevators—"

"She wasn't looking at me," he replied. "She was looking at you."

The expression of pure shock on Erin Strauss' face was priceless, and he couldn't help but laugh.

"Me? Why me?"

The fact that she was completely oblivious of her sexual hold over people was actually adorable. David's grin deepened as he pulled the confused blonde closer to him again, stealing a kiss from her lips before answering, "Well, to quote Myra, she thought you were  _absolutely delicious_."

His mouth moved to her neck, taking a moment to savor the supple softness of her skin before adding, "And I have to say, she absolutely right."

Erin shivered at his lust-saturated tone, closing her eyes as she surrendered to the feel of his hands moving across her skin. He gently pushed her back onto the mattress again (she fought back the involuntary cringe at the thought of what gravity did to her breasts at this angle), lying on his side next to her as his hands wandered the planes of her skin, ghosting over the pool at the top of her collar bone, dancing around the soft mounds of her breasts, trailing down to the outlines of her hips. His fingers were as light as feathers and her skin instantly shivered at his touch.

Her eyes remained on his face, filling with soft wonderment at the expression she saw there—he wore the softest of smiles, as if his hands were taking him on a journey into warm memories of the past. He sat up again, his mouth gently replacing his hand's position on her hip (which he could already tell was going to bruise, so raw and red was the skin). Her flesh reacted immediately, prickling with goosebumps. He smiled to himself and continued his tour, moving to the edge of the bed and gently taking her left foot in his hand.

She lifted her head, still trying to watch him, transfixed by his smooth movements, by the lines and contours of his own body as he shifted. Obviously retirement had been good for him, because he'd been working out more (or at least more than he had been nine years ago), and his skin was darker (more time at the beach, she thought enviously). But those were not the things that filled her body with that old familiar rush of heat—one look informed her that he was fully aroused and the desire in those dark eyes was unmistakable. He looked at her as if he could devour her whole, and she suddenly understood the strange plight of the bird that could only stand still, transfixed by the oncoming snake, though the pulsing through her veins was not the heavy weight of dread, but the delicious electricity of anticipation.

David grinned devilishly when he saw her eyes on his cock—in moments like these, Erin was the easiest read in the library, and if her hungry eyes hadn't given her away, the sudden flush across that smooth freckled chest was a definite clue. He silently congratulated himself on successfully taking her mind away from her current troubles, though he knew that his mission was far from over. She pushed herself up on her elbows now, her eyes slowly and purposefully traveling back up to his. Once he knew he had her full attention, he lifted her foot to his lips, placing a deep kiss on her ankle, smiling smugly as he felt the muscles of her foot flex, toes curling as she bit her lip. He continued upward, toward the curve of her calf muscle, laying light caresses and slow kisses along her skin. Then he gently laid her leg back on the comforter, allowing only his mouth to touch her for the rest of his journey. By the time he reached her thigh, she was practically squirming, but he skipped upward, his mouth landing just above her hipbone.

She gave a frustrated sigh, letting her head roll backwards as she huffed, "You cruel, cruel man."

He simply chuckled at the accusation. "You have no idea, my dear."

Those words sent a shiver down Erin's spine as he moved further up, his lips ghosting around the curve of her left breast, just enough to tease her. His kisses were too light, and each time, she tried to move towards him to press her skin more firmly to his lips, but he always pulled back. This earned him another impatient huff. He planted another warm kiss on her collarbone, moving up slightly to the muscle of her shoulder. Now his lips lost their tenderness and his teeth sank into the soft flesh, eliciting a small gasp of surprise from the woman beneath him. His left hand snaked around the curve of her waist, pulling her up to him as his teeth found her skin once again. She came forward easily, arching towards his mouth, her legs opening involuntarily at the shock of his sudden roughness. His left knee planted between those hot, sticky thighs, and she whimpered when she felt the weight of his cock against her leg. She wriggled her hips, silently begging him to enter, but he simply chuckled and shook his head.

"We're not done yet, bella."

She needed some kind of release, so she sought out his lips with her own, but he pushed her back down, back into the mattress. She tried to rise up again, but his hands snapped to her upper arms, holding her down. Her eyes filled with wonder as she looked up at the man above her, his shoulders bowed and poised like an angel of death hovering over its prey.  _My soul went out to you…to you, to you, to you…._

David took a moment to fully appreciate the view—Erin's wide eyes, her open mouth, the pulse pounding at the base of that lovely neck, the red, wet mark on her shoulder, the soft tremor of her breasts as her chest rose and fell with each heavy breath. The words left his lips before he could catch them, "You are magnificent."

That statement only intensified the inferno raging in Erin's core and she strained her hips towards his once more, her right leg hooking over his back, trying to pull him into her. He easily slipped out of her grasp and she gave a soft whine. He grinned at her obvious distress and brought his mouth to the smooth valley between her breasts. Slowly moving up the gentle slope of her right breast, his teeth came out again, nipping at the tender flesh, then salving it with his tongue. She jumped at every bite, moaning with relief when she finally felt his wet mouth on her taunt nipple. But the respite was only temporary, and if anything, it only increased the tightening in her core, which was pounding with blood and heat and need.

David turned his attention to her upper arm, still pinned beneath his own hand, as he sucked and bit at the flesh (softer than it was a decade ago, but in a good way, he decided). He cruelly ground himself into the side of her thigh, taunting her. Her hips bucked involuntarily, and he felt the muscles of her arms as she strained against him again.

"David," his name was like a prayer on her lips, but it would remain unanswered. His mouth moved to her left breast, giving it the same treatment as the other before moving down to the curve of her ribcage—he never stayed anywhere long enough for his kisses to feel like relief, only to tease and to draw out the irritation and the want and the shiver of her skin. His teeth lightly scraped the soft skin of her belly, and by now, she had simply melted, willing herself to be complacent so that the delicious torture would end. He felt her surrender and released her arms, his lips smiling against her skin as her hands automatically sought him out, her fingers burying themselves in his dark hair, caressing the head that traveled down her torso, down to her hip bone ( _keep going, keep going, oh please please keep going!_ ).

He placed his hands on her warm thighs, pushing them further apart as his mouth continued its trek, across the soft, silky skin of her inner thigh, the dark scent of her flooding his senses. By now, Erin had devolved to expressing her frustration and delight through hums and huffs and pleading mews, and her breath caught in her chest as she silently pleaded for him to go further up and further in. Instead, his mouth moved down, towards her knee, and she let out a low groan, her fingernails digging into his scalp with frustration. But then ( _oh glorious then!_ ) he moved back to her upper thigh, his teeth sinking into her flesh so suddenly that she jumped and cried out in surprise.

David sucked hard on the skin, knowing he'd leave a mark—he'd already left so many others, what was one more?—relishing the salty taste of her skin, which was sheening with sweat and trembling with want. He sat back, placing a hand on each thigh, deeply pressing his fingers into the muscles, massaging the quivering tissue, pushing just enough to cause a strain. Her hips rolled with his movements, she was past all point of controlling her animalistic responses to his touch as a low keen rumbled in her throat, calling out for him in a tongue that beat back to the dawn of time. He could feel the heat radiating from her core, could smell the dark primal scent of her, and at the sound of her call, he couldn't contain the need pounding through his body any longer. He moved forward, capturing her lips with his own as he pushed himself inside of her. She let out a low moan that pulled from the tips of her toes all the way into his mouth; he felt her walls clench around him, silently welcoming him back into her body.

He had given Erin what she wanted, but there were things he needed and wanted as well. He suddenly sat back—Erin whimpered at the abrupt departure, but he pulled her up as well, his arms wrapping around her back as he moved her into a sitting position, giving her a moment to adjust as he guided her hips, entering her once more. Her arms wrapped around him, her heels pressing into the small of his back as he set the pace again, her lips and teeth finally finding some measure of relief on his shoulder. His hands were cupping her ass, his fingers pressing into her flesh, pushing her further down as her bare chest slid against his, the friction sending sparks through her nipples. His mouth was on her neck again, gently tugging at her pulse point. Erin let out a soft hum of pure relief.

In a moment of clarity, her hazy mind decided that if  _home_  were feeling, it would feel just like this.

* * *

The soft patter of rain on the window greeted Erin as she slowly tumbled out of sleep and back into the waking world. It was still dark outside, and she felt a sudden chill, grimacing slightly as she felt the faint soreness deep in her muscles that would certainly be a problem tomorrow. David was still asleep, his heavy head on her breast, his breath sending warm gusts across her skin. They'd collapsed onto the bed without even bothering to slip beneath the covers. She smiled warmly at the thought, her hand automatically moving back to his hair, running her fingers through the thick dark locks. There were a few sprigs of grey that weren't there several years ago, but she decided that it actually made him look sexier (something she hadn't thought possible, but she'd learned long ago that when it came to David Rossi, wonders never ceased).

Before they'd drifted off into golden sated slumber, she'd silently thanked whatever lucky star that she'd been born underneath for bringing her the unexpected comfort of David Rossi.

Her lucky penny was waking again, his mouth searching out her skin, his body stretching and shifting as his hands traced the familiar lines of her curves. He hummed softly, grabbing her waist and rolling over, pulling her on top of him. Her thighs parted easily as she pushed herself up slightly, straddling him, and his member twitched at the feeling of her still warm and wet center pressing into his skin.

He opened his eyes to see the smiling face of Erin Strauss.

"Hello," she murmured softly.

"Hello yourself," he returned gently, his hand reaching up to brush her hair from her face. He took another breath before he asked, "Do you wanna talk about it?"

She knew that he was referring to her mother's death. With a heavy sigh, she gave a slight shrug, her gaze dropping down to his chest as she flatly related the details, "She was on the way to our house in Nantucket—we were all going to spend a week out there whenever I got back from Seattle—a family vacation, you know. And then somewhere on I-95, she suffered a severe cerebral aneurysm, and wrecked the car. But the EMTs said that she was probably gone before the impact. So, she didn't feel anything, I think."

It was the last two words that truly hurt David's heart, "Oh, bella…."

"Let's not," she gave a quick shake of her head, and the tears forming in her eyes disappeared as she quickly blinked them away. She forced another smile, mimicking David's movement by caressing his face with her hand. "We aren't those people, not to each other."

She saw the hurt in his eyes (which he tried so bravely to mask), but she couldn't recant her statement. Still, she softly reminded him, "We can't be, David, remember? We're…we're not…"

"I know," he replied. "You don't have to explain."

"Then why do I feel like you don't understand?" She asked quietly, her light eyes searching out his dark ones, which were nearly hidden by the shadows in the room.

"What I understand and what I feel aren't always the same thing," he answered simply. His hands went to her hips, moving up and down her sides aimlessly as he tried to find the best way to say the things he needed to say, "I know what we are, Erin, and I know that's what we agreed to be, the very first time this happened. And most of the time, I'm OK with that. But regardless of what happens in moments like this—regardless of the things we're supposed to forget—the fact remains that in all the other moments, I still care about you. We worked together, we've seen some pretty strange things and fought some pretty tough battles together—"

"And sometimes against each other," she couldn't help adding with a dry smile.

He smiled lightly in agreement as he continued, "And through all that, we've come to care about each other, as friends and colleagues would. Now, I agreed to the terms of this little whatever-this-is-between-us, but I'd still care, even if this never happened."

She gave a small nod, swallowing the lump in her throat and carefully schooling her voice before she answered, "I know. And I am—I am glad that you care. I just…I just needed something else for a little while."

She bit her lip, taking another deep breath before adding, "You know…you know I wouldn't have really found someone else—I said earlier that I could find someone, and I guess, I mean, it's true, I could….but I wouldn't have. I wouldn't have done that at all."

Her eyes moved back to his as she uttered the last part of her damning confession, "I wouldn't have, because none of them would have been what I needed. None of them would have been you."

There was a moment of silence as David fully registered her words. In all the years that they'd danced this intricate ritual, he'd never asked if there were others (because it wasn't any of his damn business, it wasn't his place, they didn't mean anything to one another, at least that's what he told himself), though he'd wondered. Now she was telling him the truth—there was no one else, there had never been anyone else, he was the only one for whom she broke her vows and her oaths and her rules, the only one who'd been worth the risk, worth the shame and the guilt and the heartache. Though she'd just reminded him that they couldn't be anything more than a casual fling, she'd also just confessed that he held a special place in her life, that he held the place of a  _need_ , albeit a twisted and uncertain one. That was all he needed (though perhaps not all he hoped for).

She gently leaned forward, her chest pressing into his as her lips tenderly mapped the geography of his face—she traced his brow, kissed his closed eyelids, the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones, his jawline, his chin, slowly winding her way back to his mouth with a surprising sweetness. Her lips trailed away again, moving to his ear, her breath hot on his skin as she whispered, "Make me forget again."

* * *

The next morning as Erin prepared for her shower, she caught sight of her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her entire body flushed when she saw the marks across her flesh, her eyes taking in every bruise and token in the mirror with a soft wonderment as her fingers lightly caressed each dark stain, like inscriptions of some arcane cult written up on her skin. She felt another flood of warmth invade her core as she thought of the tongue and hands and teeth that left these symbols.

She half-expected him to be gone when she returned from the shower, but he was standing there, already dressed, with her bags packed and waiting on the edge of the bed. She offered a soft smile, placing the last of her toiletries in the bag and readjusting her sweater one last time (she had to wear a sweater in the middle of summer, because of the marks he left on her arm and neck, but it still filled her with a naughty delight, having some deep, hot secret like this). He grabbed her bags, returning her smile with a soft one of his own as he said, "Let's get you home, bella."

In the elevator, he began to feel her pulling away as she clutched her purse, looking up at the elevator dials as she quietly said, "I'm sure this goes without saying—"

"And I'm sure you're gonna say it anyways," he countered with false irritation, and she smiled at the sarcasm.

"But if we ever see each other again, if for whatever reason—"

"This never happened," he recited the familiar litany that always accompanied these little excursions.

"Right," she gave a curt nod of approval.

Once they reached the front desk, David set her bags down beside her, "Well, bella, this is where I say goodbye."

"So long, sailor," she gave a mock two-finger salute, looking every bit like a USO girl from an Andrews Sisters' film. In the last nine years, she'd gotten better at saying goodbye—she masked the sorrow and uncertainty with a dry and slightly caustic humor that kept the tears away.

"Marine," he corrected haughtily, which earned him another smile.

"Isn't that the same thing?" She feigned innocent confusion. He chuckled at her snarkiness.

"Take care, Erin," he wrapped her into a warm hug.

"You, too, David," she whispered back. Then they pulled apart, giving each other one last smile as David walked away. It was by far their strangest, darkest, most explosive encounter, and yet, Erin would count this as one of the most serendipitous moments of her life.

* * *

When David finally reappeared at breakfast—an hour late, freshly showered, and looking a bit too tired to have spent the night alone (or sleeping for that matter)—Myra swore that she'd hate him eternally for taking away her chance with the blonde temptress, though her eyes were still dancing mischievously when she asked, "So, was she worth it?"

David answered with all of his heart when he replied quietly, "She's always worth it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually cannot remember where the line of poetry that Erin remembers from college comes from-I know it was something I translated while taking Sephardic Hebrew years ago, but I've searched for it many times since then and could never find it. If you somehow know, please tell me!


	10. The Said & the Unsaid

_"I know you will guess all I leave unsaid."_

_~Le Comte de Mirabeau._

* * *

**July 2002. Somerset, Massachusetts.**

Walking through her childhood home was like living in a moment of time that stood still, Erin decided with a warm rush of nostalgia. She was sitting on the edge of the bed in the room that was hers for most of her childhood and early teen years, until her father was appointed to the Circuit Court of Appeals and they moved down to Washington, D.C. They'd kept this house, because her mother liked having somewhere to "get away to", though Erin suspected it was really part of a strange need to simply have some physical stake left behind in the little town that had been Elaine Breyer's home for most of her life.

After all, this was where Elaine wanted to be buried—back home, in the little church graveyard with all her people and all her husband's people, a long line of proud Breyers and MacLauchlans and Hammerschmidts. In this moment, Erin was thankful that they had somewhere to rest after the funeral, instead of simply getting back in the car to make a 450 mile trek into Vienna. Right now, she didn't think she could handle being around anyone in a small confined space for hours on end.

She leaned over and picked up the wine bottle that was patiently waiting at her feet, slipping out of her shoes as she moved further back onto the mattress, sitting Indian-style. She took another swig straight from the bottle, almost cringing as she thought of how her mother would berate her for being so uncouth.  _Really, Erin, it's such a shame to see those years of charm school wasted on such an ill-mannered child_.

She gave a wicked grin as she retorted to the mother-voice in her head,  _Oh, Mama, you have no idea just how coarse your little girl is_.

She shouldn't be joking about such things. Not at a time like this. Still, the steady stream of red wine that had been enlisted to get her through this day was doing its job, and she was beginning to feel the bubbly warmth that always accompanied it. She could mourn and be auspicious tomorrow. Today, she just needed to survive.

Paul appeared in the doorway, his face filled with gentle concern. She looked up at him, stamping down a wave of irritation that he'd come looking for her, like she was some small child that couldn't be trusted to walk around a damn house by herself.

He stepped into the room, reaching over and taking the bottle from Erin's hand, "I think you're done for the day."

She simply nodded in agreement, flopping onto her side. "I think I'll stay in here tonight. Are the kids alright?"

"Your sister has them downstairs washing dishes." Paul replied with a small smile.

"Of course she does," Erin felt her irritation rising again. Carole, Carole, picture-perfect Carole, domestic goddess and appropriate handler of crisis, faithful wife and loving mother.  _Well, fuck you, Carole_.

She rolled away, turning her back to her husband so that he couldn't see her petty anger. He set the wine bottle down again, slowly crawling on the bed next to her. He wrapped his arms around her, nestling his chin in the curve of her neck. He gave her a reassuring squeeze, which only made her wince, and then he sat up in concern, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. My whole body just aches," she replied quietly. It wasn't a lie. She still hadn't recovered from her reunion with David Rossi, and the hours spent sitting still over long periods of time for flights and road trips certainly hadn't helped the soreness.

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," she gave a diplomatic shrug. That wasn't a lie, either. If she hadn't been such a messed up individual, she wouldn't have several rounds of tawdry sex in a hotel room with a man whom she should never have met, and she wouldn't still be suffering the after-effects three days later.

"Would you like me to try and massage the soreness away?" Paul asked solicitously, his hand already moving down her hip (down where the red imprint of David's fingers still lay, still pressed deep into her skin and blood and muscle, burned into her memory forever).

"I think it would only make it worse at this point." Also not a lie. Because Paul had hands like magic and eventually she'd be pulling her clothes off, and then he'd see the marks and he'd know. He'd know and she would wound him in a way that she never wanted to, she would hurt this man who never deserved such pain, his world and his heart would shatter and it would be her fault.

"Alright," he said quietly, taking a moment to give her a quick kiss on her temple before standing and grabbing the wine again. "I'm just gonna take this downstairs and check on the kids. You get some rest."

She gave a slight nod. As she heard him turn to leave, she said softly, "Paul?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too, Erin."

_Of course you do_ , she wanted to reply.  _Of course you do, because you have no idea who I really am. If only you knew, my darling, if only, if only you knew_.

David Rossi knew. He knew just how fucked up she really was, and yet, somehow, he stayed around. Although staying around had its obvious rewards, Erin was certain that a man of David's looks and charm could find much less damaged women to spend his evenings with—women who were younger and prettier and kinder and more endearing. Still, he'd chosen to stay. Even after she'd pushed him and hit him and bullied him, he'd chosen to stay.

Which meant there had to be something more between them than just a few nights of crazy sex. Erin didn't really want to think about what that meant, because last time she'd done that, she'd ended up with a kid. A cute, funny, gregarious, inquisitive kid who never failed to bring a smile to his mother's face. A kid who was a gift, given in secret, who would never understand all the reasons why his mother loved him so, or why she smiled whenever he did or said something that seemed to mimic a man whom he'd never met.

David knew what she really was, but he didn't know everything about her. There was a sad, aching sense of isolation as Erin realized that no one would ever truly know every side of her, because so many of those sides were in direct conflict with one another—if one were revealed, it would destroy the other. Even if her love for Paul faded, her devotion to her son would always ensure that she kept those secrets locked away. There was no power in heaven or hell that could force her to rip apart her son's world in such a horrible way.

Perhaps it wasn't entirely for Paul's sake that she kept these secrets. Perhaps it wasn't for Paul's sake at all. Perhaps it was for the little dark-haired boy with the big brown eyes, who always looked at her with such love and trust. She'd die a thousand deaths before she broke his tender heart.

Once again (just like every other time before) Erin Strauss told herself that she had finally gotten rid of whatever illness had possessed her to seek out the comfort of David Rossi. This time she'd truly gone too far—physically, emotionally, mentally. He had been a welcome distraction from her current troubles, but nothing more. She'd had a moment of weakness (for which she was physically still atoning, her muscles reminded her), but the moment had passed. The moment had passed and she was here, where she belonged, and David was somewhere far away, where he belonged, and soon the bruises would fade and soon she could just pretend it never happened, moving along with her life. Their paths probably would never cross again (she ignored the fact that she'd thought the exact same thing four years ago), and that was how it should be. That was how it should be and that was how it would be.

Erin suddenly realized that her mind was still much too clear. She shouldn't be thinking about this at all—she should be drifting away in a lovely warm haze, tumbling out of reality for a few blessed hours. She moaned and wished that Paul had let her keep the alcohol.

* * *

**April 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

Aaron Hotchner was not expecting David to show up looking so refreshed—especially after such a rough case. He knew Dave's backstory better than the rest of the team, and he knew that this last case had several elements that were key triggers for the older agent, so he'd braced himself to expect a much darker, much quieter, much moodier version of Rossi.

Dave didn't act any different—he still said his gruff good mornings as he made his way through the bullpen—but the weight that had seemed to press on his shoulders last night was completely gone, and the dark circles under his eyes had disappeared as well.

Although Hotch was certain that the next bit of news was going to change all of that. He stuck his head out of the conference room, motioning for Dave to join the rest of the team (minus Garcia), who were already seated around the table.

By now, Reid's work on the maps was complete. Pinned above the map was the photo of the invisible ink message left by the Replicator three weeks ago. On the dry erase board was a hurriedly scratched out list of names—names that David Rossi knew all too well.

"What the hell has Tommy Yates got to do with the Replicator?" David stood in the doorway, slightly shocked by the sight that greeted his eyes.

"The list of numbers were map coordinates for Yates' dump sites," Blake turned to him with an almost apologetic expression. She nodded back towards the young doctor, "Spencer figured it out this morning."

"The problem is that this isn't all of the victims," Hotch spoke quietly. "The list has 36 sets of coordinates. Yates has given you 42 names so far."

"He might not have been able to get the last six," Blake pointed out.

Rossi shook his head slowly, "No. Everything means something with this guy. If he knows where the bodies are, then he had to have gotten the locations from Yates himself. That sick bastard would be more than happy to oblige, especially if it gave him another chance to yank my chain."

The lovely feeling inspired by his quiet morning with Erin was now completely dissipated. On the drive over, he'd constantly replayed their last moments together—he'd bemoaned the time, and she had quickly taken his coffee mug, giving him a light peck on the forehead as she breezily said that she'd see him later at the office. It was so blissfully domestic that David had wondered if he'd slipped into some strange parallel universe, but as he watched the slow sway of Erin's hips as she disappeared back into the house, he realized that if he was, he'd gladly stay a captive in this new version of reality.

Sadly, that reality had been shattered less than five minutes after he entered the building. Now Aaron Hotchner was looking at him, his dark eyes filled with concern as he quietly asked, "Dave, do you still have the list?"

It was really a rhetorical question, because he knew that David would never throw away such a thing. The older man simply nodded, turning back to his office to retrieve the worn and folded piece of yellow legal pad paper. As soon as he returned, Hotch began speaking again, "I think our main focus should be the women whose coordinates are not on the invisible ink list—there has to be a reason that they weren't included."

"So what do we do?" Morgan sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Compare the ones who aren't on the Replicator's list? What's that supposed to tell us?"

"We might need to go back and plot the coordinates for them as well—he might be telling us something with a geographical pattern," Reid suggested.

"Or he's left something at one or all of those dump sites," JJ theorized.

"So we send the local PD out there to have a look," Blake surmised, to which Hotch gave a curt nod of agreement. She held her hands up in confusion, "Well, what do we tell them to look for? I mean, it could be anything—it could be something that wouldn't stand out to them, that would only have significant meaning to someone who's worked a BAU case."

"Let's learn to walk before we try to run," Hotch brought them all back from whatever theories and rabbit trails their brains were following. "First we'll figure out which names were left off the list. Then we'll get the names to Garcia and see what she can tell us."

Morgan's face suddenly lit up as he spied Penelope making her way to the conference room, "Speaking of our lovely lady—"

"Good morning, crime fighters," she chirped, busily handing out folders as she made her way around the room. She took a moment to congratulate Reid on his new discovery, "Good job on the coordinate thingy, Boy Wonder."

"Thanks," he beamed, taking a folder as he slipped into his usual chair.

Garcia continued in her usual rapid-fire conversational pattern, "I know, I know, we'd all rather be trying to catch this sucker and nailing him to the nearest wall, but sadly, my little righters of wrongs and foilers of mayhem, the world is filled with sickos and we've got a little city in Wisconsin that could use our help."

She sat down, popping open her laptop and pulling up the information on their latest case, "I'm gonna give ya the quick and dirty version, because you need to be on your way ASAP and more details will be provided on the plane—there's a string of missing women in Plainfield—and if you're already flashing back to Ed Gein and  _Psycho_ , then you're right on track, Clarice, because the women whose bodies have been found are missing sexual organs and various patches of skin."

Alex's brow furrowed as she glanced up at the photos on the screen. "This doesn't look like a Gein copycat, though."

"It isn't." Garcia agreed. "At least, that's the opinion of local PD. Aside from the missing organs and skin, this new guy doesn't have any similarities to Ed Gein. But from what the coroner can tell, these women are being held for at least 72 hours before being killed and mutilated post-mortem. The body count is up to four, but there are two more missing."

"Our window of time to find the remaining two women alive is only open for about another 43 hours," Hotch added, glancing at his watch as he gathered his things. "We'll finish the briefing on the plane. Wheels up in 30 minutes."

* * *

Erin Strauss was moving through the hallways as quickly as her new nude Louboutin pumps would allow, biting her lip as she breezed past people who were walking much slower than she was (honestly, was everyone just aimlessly wandering the halls today? didn't they have  _jobs_  to do?). She knew that the BAU team had a flight scheduled to leave in less than twenty minutes, and she wanted to catch David before he left.

She'd heard the latest news on the Replicator case, and she'd felt the immediate urge to seek out her dark-haired love, to somehow reassure herself that he was alright (her head knew that he was, but her foolish little heart kept clamoring that maybe she should check, just to be sure, and dammit if her heart hadn't won out). She knew that she was being irrational, impulsive, reckless—all the things that she tried so hard not to be, all the things that David Rossi seemed to pull out of her, against her will and better judgment.

She caught the team in the hall, ignoring the momentary look of confusion which flashed across Agent Hotchner's face, which he wisely and quickly concealed.

"Chief Strauss," he greeted her in his usual noncommittal tone.

"I know you're on your way out," she didn't waste time with pleasantries. "I just need a quick word with Agent Rossi."

She didn't miss the grin on Derek Morgan's handsome face, and she briefly contemplated removing that smirk with a quick smack of her hand, but she refrained. The rest of the team continued their trek; David stayed behind, grasping the clasp of his go-bag with an uncharacteristic bout of nervousness that Erin found endearing.

"What's up, Strauss?"

She looked around quickly before pulling him down another hallway, into a small alcove created by the doorway of the utility closet.

"I heard about the new development," she spoke in a hushed tone, her green eyes filled with tender concern. She gently placed her hand on his arm as she gently queried, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Erin." He couldn't decide whether to find her worry irritating or sweet.

"I know," she admitted, her eyes dropping to his chest. "I just—I think I wanted an excuse to see you before you left."

"I see," his voice became warmer, more knowing.

"There was something I wanted to say to you, before you left this morning," she added nervously. "And now that you're leaving again, I just didn't want to miss my chance."

"Erin, I've got a plane to catch. So whatever you need to say, just say—"

His words were stopped by the sudden clasp of her hand at his neck, pulling him downward, her mouth covering his own, her other hand tightening its grip on his arm as she leaned forward on the balls of her feet. Her tongue pushed into his mouth with a sense of urgency, seeking out the comfort of his own. David's free hand immediately moved to the back of that blonde head, pulling her lips further into his. He felt the breath leave her lungs, traveling into his, felt whatever strange worry that had been zinging from her skin suddenly melt away.

She pulled back, her cheeks glowing and her eyes twinkling—she reminded David of a girl kissing her first crush under the bleachers at school.

"Is that all you needed to say?" He asked quietly.

She gave a sheepish smile, "That's all."

She turned pertly on her heel, sashaying back down the hall (and leaving such a lovely image in her pencil skirt and well-defined calves, David smiled naughtily). She didn't even turn to see his reaction as she threw her last volley over her shoulder, "For now."

David Rossi simply shook his head, picking up his pace as he headed back to the elevators, taking another moment to enjoy the delightful view of her retreating form. Erin Strauss always said she wasn't good with words, but boy, the things she said without them were more than enough compensation.

_For now, for now...oh, Erin. I can't wait to see what you do next_.

* * *

Derek Morgan was still wearing a sly grin by the time David Rossi boarded the plane. To his credit, he did at least wait until after takeoff before sidling up to the older agent and quietly asking, "So, what did Strauss want?"

Rossi turned, showering the inquisitive man with his most disdainful look before answering, "She wanted to discuss the breakthrough on the Replicator case."

"Didn't Hotch already send her all the information?" Derek wasn't going to let him get off so easily.

"I guess she just wanted to hear it in person."

"And I'm guessing that's not all she wanted," the younger man sat back with another smile.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Rossi summoned his iciest glare, but it didn't seem to have its usual effect.

Derek just shrugged, "Call it intuition."

He rose to his feet again, turning back to Rossi as if he'd forgotten something, "Oh, and by the way, that shade of lipstick looks good on you. Really brings out those gorgeous green eyes."

David fought back the wave of irritation at his own foolishness—wasn't that the first trick in the book, covering your tracks? Still, he wouldn't let his friend win so easily, "My eyes are  _brown_ , Morgan."

The younger agent's devilish grin deepened as he wagged his eyebrows, "But Strauss' aren't."

With that, he returned to his seat further back in the plane, shaking his head as he continued to smile to himself. David wanted to be angry, but he found that he couldn't be, not truly. He slowly wiped the physical proof of Erin's confession from his lips, taking a moment to stare at the light pink stain that now streaked across the back of his hand. Without even thinking, he gingerly traced the outline with his finger—it was a simple, inconsequential thing, a smudge of lipstick, but it was a token of Erin, and he decided to let it stay next to his skin for a little while longer. He suddenly realized that it was the first time they'd actually kissed in almost a year, and he smiled at the implication—that was what her tongue was telling him ( _I'm worried, I miss you, I need you, I'm here, I'm in, I'm for us_ ), that was the thing that she wanted to say before he left again, because she wanted him to go out into the wild world without a shadow of a doubt that she was right there with him. For someone who professed to be bad with words, she was damn near poetic when it came to showing her sentiments.

From his vantage point at the back of the cabin, Derek Morgan witnessed this quiet little moment—the soft smile on David's face, the way his body shifted and relaxed at the mere remembrance of whatever exchange that left Erin's mark on his mouth. It was then that Morgan realized that it wasn't just some weird sexual-tension-blowout between the two (which was his first guess, after what he'd seen two weeks ago in Hotch's office). A man didn't smile like that when it was just a fling. A man didn't stare at a smear of lipstick like it was the mark of holy devotion if the lipstick belonged to a woman he didn't care about. This man was way past that—he was in deep, past the point of no return. David Rossi was in love.

With his superior.

With a woman who could eviscerate a person with a single glance.

With Erin Strauss.

Oh, Good Lord have mercy.

* * *

**Vienna, Virginia.**

"Good Lord, Mother, hurry up!"

The voice of Erin's eldest child rang through the house, causing Erin to roll her eyes heavenward. Patience never was Jordan's strong suit.

"Just a minute," she called from the kitchen.

"We're starting the movie without you," came the reply.

Erin grabbed the bowls of popcorn, shaking her head wryly—years of reenacting this exact conversation had taught her that Jordan would never follow through with her threats, regardless of how long her mother took. It was part of being the overly considerate people-pleasing eldest child (something Erin understood because she was the eldest of her siblings).

She entered the living room and took her place on the couch, passing out the popcorn, "OK, I'm ready."

Glancing around the living room, she felt her heart swell with the familiar warmth that always appeared when all her children were home again—Chris was in the overstuffed armchair, his lanky legs stretched out on the coffee table (she was silently thankful that he'd at least taken his shoes off), Jordan was curled up at the other end of the couch, with Anna's head on her shoulder. Her girls were always closer than Erin and her sister had been, and she found herself wishing that her relationship with Carole hadn't always been so fraught with negativity and cattiness.

The film began, and Anna grinned when she saw the dark-haired lead actor, "Hey, Mom, he looks like the guy you brought home last night."

Jordan and Chris' heads immediately snapped around to their mother, their eyes as wide as saucers.

"Excuse me?" Jordan nearly choked on her popcorn.

"It wasn't like that," Erin replied, giving Anna a quick spat on the shoulder, silently reprimanding her for causing such an uproar. Her youngest simply laughed, taking a certain delight in watching her mother try to wiggle her way out of this one. "He's just a colleague from work; he stayed in the guest room."

"And when have you ever had 'just a colleague from work' stay over?" Christopher asked, arching his eyebrow.

"A  _male_  colleague," Jordan added.

"Let's watch the movie," Erin turned her attention back to the screen.

"Oh, no, no, no, no," Jordan sat up, quickly pausing the DVD. "No, ma'am, we are not just changing the subject."

Chris nodded in agreement, pulling his feet off the coffee table so he could sit on the edge of his seat."I mean, how many times have you grilled us about girlfriends or boyfriends—"

"Or friends that you thought should have been boyfriends," Jordan interjected.

Chris pointed to his sister, as if she were an exhibit in a trial, "Exactly! Now, after all those years of nagging questions and embarrassing conversations, do you really think we're going to let this slip by without repaying the favor?"

Erin could see the absolute glee in her two eldest children's eyes at the prospect of finally turning the tables on their dear mother, and she scowled darkly at the source of this inquisition, "Anna, I swear, I'm grounding you for life."

Anna was laughing too hard to take her mother's threat seriously.

Erin sighed, knowing that the easiest thing was to simply take her children's questions head-on, "What do you want to know?"

"His name would probably be a good start," Jordan remarked dryly.

"David Rossi," Anna supplied helpfully.

"Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi," her mother corrected, trying her best to look austere as she added, "He is a member of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, which, as you know, is just one of the many units that I oversee."

"She's so adorable when she gets all defensive and uppity," Chris grinned at his elder sister. The look his mother shot him was anything but adorable.

"Is he good-looking?" Jordan asked.

Again, Anna answered before her mother could, "He's a little old for my tastes, but I think he's got a hot quality that Mom would really—"

"Anna Claire!"

"Ohmigod, Mom, you're blushing!" Jordan crowed with delight.

"This is hell," Erin moaned, burying her head in her heads. "I've died and gone to hell."

"Wait," Christopher's dark eyes suddenly light up in recognition. "David Rossi—isn't that the guy who wrote all those books in your library?"

"It is!" Jordan gasped, turning back to her mother in awe. "I  _love_  his books. Are you telling me that's the guy who slept in our house?"

"My house," Erin corrected with a sigh. "And yes, David Rossi is the one who wrote the books. He still writes, actually, when he isn't working for the BAU."

"He's the one who worked for the FBI before," Jordan was suddenly remembering the things she'd read in his books. "He worked joint task forces with White Collar and ViCAP and like,  _dozens_  of other sections—you two must've been working together for years now."

"I did consult as an analyst on several cases with him, yes," Erin answered diplomatically.

"So, wait...," Chris' brow quirked quizzically. "How long have you known each other?"

Erin took a moment to think. "Well...I guess it'll be 28 years in December."

"Wow." Jordan suddenly sobered. "That's a long time."

"It is." Erin agreed, although it still seemed like it wasn't that long ago at all.

"So if this guy is just a colleague, why did you bring him home last night?" Christopher returned to the matter at hand.

His mother took a deep breath, carefully trying to find the words to explain, "Because there had been a particularly rough case, and I didn't think he needed to be alone. It's not easy, the job they have to do, and sometimes it can be too much. And since we have known each other for such a long time, I do care about him and I didn't want him to be alone."

"And so you've just turned your house into a rescue shelter for lost souls?" Chris sat back, giving his mother a critical look.

"I think it's sweet," Jordan suddenly decided, offering her mother a soft smile, for which Erin was very grateful. Then she turned to her younger sister, "So, what was your take on him?"

Erin held her breath, actually anxious to hear what Anna had to say.

"I liked him," Anna pronounced. "He didn't act all weird, trying to be my pal or talking to me in a completely patronizing way like some of Dad's dates."

She cringed at the last part, turning back to her mother with an apologetic glance, "Sorry, I'm not sure you wanted to hear that—"

"Honey, I know your father's dating," Erin assured her. "And there's nothing wrong with it. He deserves to be happy."

"So do you," Jordan added quietly, her eyes watching her mother's face with soft concern.

"I am," Erin returned, her tone softening as well. She motioned around the room with a smile, "I have three brilliant, charming children who love their mother enough to spend their Friday night with her. What more do I need?"

Anna snuggled closer to her mother, but Jordan and Chris exchanged dubious glances.

"Mother," he adopted an air of mock seriousness. "I'm not sure if you're old enough to have the talk yet, but I assure you, one day you'll learn there are things that are much more enjoyable—"

"Christopher Paul Strauss!" The color drained from Erin's face.

Jordan erupted into laughter, throwing a pillow cushion at her brother, "You are horrible!"

"It's the truth!" He countered playfully.

"Don't scar your poor mother for life," his older sister scolded. With a wry shake of her head, she picked up the remote again. "Well, on that note, I say we return to our movie."

The others agreed, and Erin silently thanked the heavens above that she'd survived her first ordeal by fire—though Jordan had saved her from further embarrassment by ending the interrogation, the look in her eldest daughter's eyes told Erin that this was far from over. As her children's attention returned to the TV screen, she allowed her mind to wander back to Chris' words.  _There are things that are much more enjoyable_...she knew, she knew exactly what things and just how enjoyable they were, especially with David Rossi. Her pulse quickened at the thought that for the first time, they would have more than just a single night to pursue these passions, and suddenly she felt like a kid again, anxiously awaiting the arrival of Christmas or her birthday.

_Birthday_. David's birthday was coming up soon. She knew that he usually didn't like celebrating, because he had to spend the day traveling up to see Thomas Yates, after which he'd set out to find the family belonging to the name written on that ominous sheet of paper. Sometimes he'd drive, or sometimes he would just book the next available flight to wherever the family of the newest victim lived. He didn't have to—he could have called the local PD, or even the nearest FBI field office—but he shouldered the burden anyways, because that was the kind of man he was. Her chest filled with an odd mixture of adoration and sadness for the beautiful, compassionate soul that was David Rossi.

She suddenly decided that this year, he was going to enjoy his birthday. She'd do whatever it took to ensure that this celebration would be one for the books.


	11. Choices

_"We are our choices."_

_~Jean-Paul Sartre._

* * *

**April 2013. Plainfield, Wisconsin.**

"Alright, Babygirl. Hit me up when you've got something." Derek Morgan smiled softly as he ended the call, looking up from his cell phone and turning his attention back to Alex, who was crouched next to the body of their latest victim, which had been dumped in an abandoned field. The only reason they'd found her so soon was because someone had noticed the large number of carrion circling overhead earlier that day—sadly, the authorities hadn't gotten to her before the birds had. By the time Morgan and Blake had arrived, night was falling, and now the field seemed even more isolated by the darkness and the stillness. Around them, police combed through the grass, their flashlights bouncing from point to point, the blue and red patrol car lights swirling across the quiet field.

"His timeframe is accelerating," Alex commented, her brown eyes still focused on the remains of Jenny Greenwald, yoga instructor and mother of two who now looked nothing like the smiling woman in the family photograph pinned to the board in the police station conference room. "I think our presence has him spooked."

Morgan didn't miss the sense of blame that Blake's voice held, but he pushed past it, because it didn't help them, "Or something else has gotten to him. If the timeframe accelerates, it could mean that the event he's preparing for is approaching."

At the mention of impending events, Alex's mind immediately returned to the list of names on the dry-erase board back at Quantico, "Did Garcia find anything on the women who weren't on the Replicator's list?"

He shook his head with a frustrated sigh, "She said there are no connections, aside from Yates' usual preferences."

"And his only real preference was victims with uteri," Alex surmised, pressing her lips into a thin line. There was a heavy silence as Morgan crouched beside her, taking a moment to survey the body. Alex turned her face to the sky, trying to find solace in the velvet indigo and bright diamonds of their universe.

"You know what the worst part of this whole Replicator thing is?" She asked quietly. Morgan turned to her, his face silently questioning. She continued, "Going on a new case and wondering if this is going to be the one he decides to replicate. Praying that whomever he's going to torture next doesn't have to endure whatever it is you're seeing now."

She looked back down at the body, her latex-gloved hand gently brushing away a lock of hair from Jenny's pale, dirty face, "It's almost like, with every case we choose, we're choosing the next way that someone else is going to die."

"That's how he wants us to feel, Alex," Morgan said quietly.

"Well, it's working," she replied with a sigh.

"I know," he admitted softly, turning his face up to the heavens. "I know."

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia**.

Penelope Garcia felt a wave of apprehension wash over her as she rounded the corner and saw Chief Strauss leaning against her doorframe, waiting with a studied coolness that made her seem like a mobster from a film set in the 1930s.

However the would-be mobster smiled when she saw Penelope, "Good morning, Garcia."

"G-good morning," Penelope halted, slightly confused.

Strauss stepped away from the door, allowing Penelope to unlock it, "I don't make a habit of lurking outside people's offices, but they'd told me that you are here by seven most mornings."

"Oh, I am," Penelope suddenly felt like a child being reprimanded for tardiness. "I mean, I usually am—today was an exception, because there was a really long line at the coffee shop, and then I think there was a wreck on the freeway, but usually I'm very punctual, because, you know, that's important—and if I am late, I always make up for it by staying—"

Strauss smiled amusedly at her ramblings, gently interrupting her, "Garcia, I don't care what time you show up for work. I know you work harder and longer than any other analyst, especially when the team's out in the field."

"Oh, no. I mean, yes, I do—thank you for noticing, ma'am," Penelope still couldn't stop herself from blabbering, although she was fully aware that she was doing just that. "Is there—is there something I can do for you?"

"There is, actually," Strauss crossed her arms, looking down at the floor. She glanced around the hall, "Could we perhaps discuss it in your office?"

"Sure. Yes. Absolutely."

The younger woman opened the door, bustling in to set down her purse and her coffee before turning to her companion with an anxious air. Erin Strauss had not always been a friend to her beloved team of crime fighters, and Penelope still wasn't sure exactly how much to trust the older woman. It didn't help that Strauss also looked as nervous as Penelope felt.

"I—ah, there's something—I need your help," Strauss clasped her hands in front of her.

"With what, ma'am?" Penelope asked cautiously.

"It's…well, it's a bit personal, in a way, I guess." Erin took a deep breath, setting her shoulders as she looked up to meet the other blonde's gaze, "It's about Agent Rossi."

"What about Agent Rossi? I know nothing about Agent Rossi—I haven't seen, or heard, or noticed anything about him at all," Penelope's mind immediately flashed to the scene outside the Sci-Fi-Gate Convention last year, then to the strange moment she'd witnessed just a few weeks ago in Hotch's office.

If Erin wasn't so nervous, she'd probably burst into laughter. Penelope Garcia was officially the worst liar ever. Erin was now well-aware of the fact that the team had witnessed the tender moment between her and David after the screaming match in Aaron Hotchner's office, and surprisingly, she found that she didn't care (much).

"It's about his birthday."

"Oh." There was visible relief in those big brown eyes. Then her face suddenly lit up with delight, "Oh!"

"As you know, since the capture of Thomas Yates, it hasn't been the best day for him—"

"No, ma'am, it hasn't."

"So, I decided…perhaps we should change that."

"Do you have something in mind?"

"I do, actually." Strauss admitted. Penelope's face filled with unadulterated glee as she added, "But I'm going to need your help."

The technical analyst placed her hand on her chest, "My infinite powers of surprise party planning and general awesomeness are at your command, my chief."

* * *

**Plainfield, Wisconsin.**

Jennifer Jareau stared through the one-way glass, her arms crossed over her chest as she sized up the man entering the room on the opposite side of the window. His name was Tobias Schechter and he'd been pulled over by a local deputy for expired tags—then the deputy had noticed what appeared to be blood stains in the back of his truck. Further inspection of the vehicle produced materials that could be used to remove skin and organs, all covered in traces of blood as well.

Her phone buzzed and she looked over at Rossi and Morgan, who moved closer as JJ answered, "You're on speakerphone, Garcia."

"Alright, here is the skinny on Tobias Schechter," Penelope's voice came across the line. "He has lived in Plainfield his whole life, has a really awful credit score, and he has had the same known address for his entire life. A few speeding tickets, one DUI, no major run-ins with the law at all, it seems."

Penelope followed a few more links as she continued her narration, "However, there was an incident at his high school involving a Carrie Jane Cooper—"

She gave a slight gasp when the old newspaper article came up and she saw the photos of the young woman, "Oh, guys, she's a dead-ringer—no pun intended—for our victims."

"What was the incident?" Rossi queried.

"The article doesn't go into details—it just cites that police were called to the local high school after a disturbance between two teenagers," Penelope frowned, her fingers quickly issuing commands as she searched for court records. "It was in 1993. Tobias was fifteen, Carrie Jane Cooper was seventeen. But for some reason, Carrie dropped the charges against Tobias—the police report states that Tobias attempted to kidnap her, also has mention of attempted assault and a history of inappropriate and unwanted advances, although school records seem to write it off as a 'misunderstanding'."

She pursued a few more links, searching for Carrie Jane Cooper, and suddenly it made sense, "Carrie went on to become a novelist, and she is returning next week as the guest speaker for her twenty-year high school reunion."

"That's our stressor." Penelope could hear Morgan's quiet voice in the background.

"And that's all I have for now, my loves—sending it to your phones and tablets as we speak," the analyst finished, adding with her usual flair, "Garcia out."

The call ended and the three agents returned their attention to the man in the next room. JJ felt Rossi shift next to her, heard him give a slight sigh.

"I don't think this is our guy."

"How can you tell?" JJ's eyes never left the suspect.

"He's too sloppy," came the simple reply, though JJ knew that it contained enough explanation to make sense to a behavioral analyst.

Morgan leaned against the frame of the window with his usual easy grace, silently watching the man seated at the table. He seemed less certain than Rossi, but JJ could tell that he was starting to feel the same way.

The door to the observation room opened and Hotch appeared, repeating Rossi's sentiment, "This isn't the man we're looking for."

"Too sloppy," Rossi pointed out, to which Hotch gave a curt nod of agreement.

"Everything matches up perfectly—I mean, his history, the stressor of Carrie Jane's return, the tools found in the truck, all of it," JJ murmured, finally turning her attention away from the suspect and back to her colleagues. "You think someone set this guy up?"

Hotch gave another nod of affirmation. "And I think he knows who did it."

He turned his attention to his cell phone, pulling up the information that Garcia had sent as JJ bit back a wave of fear at the thought that this was starting to feel just like Scott Grimes in Philadelphia.  _Oh, God, please don't let it be the Replicator again._

* * *

Approximately 20 miles away, Spencer Reid and Alex Blake were coming to the same conclusion as they walked through the home of one Tobias Schechter, who was currently in the interrogation room.

"Doesn't this seem a bit disorganized to you?" Spencer frowned, looking around.

"Well, he is a single man living alone," Alex quipped in a rare bit of humor. She'd been on-edge since they'd found the latest body the night before, and now she was trying to combat the overwhelming feeling of apprehension with a glib attitude. However, Spencer didn't acknowledge her joke, so she sobered again, "You're right—we profiled our UNSUB as highly organized and efficient, and everything about this place screams the exact opposite."

She took a moment to survey the living room—the paneling and carpet dated back at least two decades, although Tobias Schechter was only in his 30s. The furniture was worn and old as well. This man was living in a house that he didn't decorate or furnish, which meant it had to have been inherited, most likely from his parents. They'd profiled the UNSUB as someone who definitely lived alone, but their analysis suggested that he'd be much more organized and in-control of his space. The person who lived here was someone just skating through life, without control over anything, too passive to care about his living environment or any major aspect of his life at all.

She shook her head with another irritated sigh, "Besides, we have yet to find a space large enough and isolated enough for him to hold the women for so many hours."

"Something's off," the younger agent agreed, pulling his phone out of his pocket and dialing Hotch's number.

Alex continued touring the house, silently shifting past the local deputy who'd followed them to the location. Her eyes followed the line of family photos along the wall—something a bit strange to find in a single male's home, which further confirmed her suspicions that this once belonged to his parents—as her mind pieced together the narrative told by these captured moments. First there was one son, then there were two.

There were two.

Her eyes widened as the little missing piece clicked into place. "Spencer..."

He heard the low tone, which warned him of some new discovery on the imminent horizon, and he stopped, keeping the phone pressed to his ear as he followed the direction of her voice. She appeared from the hallway, clutching a framed photograph.

"He has a brother."

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia.**

"Two internet points for the lovely Agent Blake—Tobias Schechter does indeed have a brother," Penelope's fingers flew across the keyboard as she continued relaying information over the speakerphone. "Michael Schechter was born in 1975 but left Plainfield in 1993...he apparently dropped out of school just six weeks before graduation and went to live with relatives in Colorado. His last known address was two years ago, also in Colorado. There's no mention of him returning to Plainfield ever—no plane tickets, no credit card transactions, nothing even in the state of Wisconsin."

"When did he leave Plainfield, exactly?" Hotch's voice came over the line.

"March 1993. Right after Carrie dropped the charges against Tobias, Michael left town." The dread creeping into Penelope's voice was unmistakable as she pursued the rabbit trail into Michael Schechter's life. "There's a few incidents in Colorado, where he's accused of stalking or trespassing, but none of the complaining victims ever pressed charges—"

"He charmed his way out of it," Rossi surmised. "This sounds like our guy."

"He bumps around from job to job, although each one has a certain flair to it—car salesman, insurance salesman, pretty much anything that allows him to manipulate people into buying things." Penelope continued, frowning in distaste—she had a certain fear of car salesmen that immediately informed her dislike of Michael Schechter.

"Psychopaths seek out settings that not only allow them to manipulate and control others, but that actively encourage it as well," Derek commented. "Working in high-stakes positions like sales and the stock market is usually a way to achieve that in a socially-sanctioned setting."

"His left his last job two months ago," Penelope felt a wave of apprehension. "His bank account was cleared out then as well."

"When did the high school reunion notices go out?" Hotch asked.

"Months ago," Penelope returned, frowning as she went back to Carrie Jane Cooper's thread of information, "But Carrie didn't announce that she was attending as guest speaker until two months ago—via her Twitter account."

"I would bet good money that our boy Michael's a follower," Derek's voice was heavy with the realization.

"Thank you, Garcia," Hotch's voice cut in. "We'll talk to you again soon."

"Right-o, Boss," Penelope replied, hanging up the phone and returning her full attention back to her computer screen.

* * *

**Plainfield, Wisconsin**.

Eight long hours later, Michael Schechter was in custody. An interview with Carrie Jane Cooper revealed that he had been the one behind her attempted kidnapping, after he'd manipulated his younger brother into physically carrying out the plan—apparently Michael had been using Tobias as a scapegoat for most of his life, because he believed Tobias' birth to be the reason their father abandoned them and their mother. Once Carrie had discovered the truth, she'd dropped the charges against Tobias, and Michael had agreed to leave the state. She had thought that everything was alright after that.

Michael moved on to other victims, but after seeing Carrie on TV during an interview on her latest book several months ago, he reverted back to his need to possess his old high school fantasy—he'd become a member of her fan club, had followed her on every social media site that he could, and when she announced her return to Plainfield, it had seemed like divine providence to him. He could finally finish what he'd started two decades earlier, and send his brother away for the crime—two birds, one stone. It couldn't get any better than that.

However, the final missing woman, Delia Anderson, was still unaccounted for. Which meant that in some ways, Michael Schechter still held the winning hand.

When it came to interviewing Schechter, Alex Blake drew the short straw simply because her dark hair and brown eyes meant that she most closely resembled Carrie Jane and the other victims.

This did not go unnoticed by Michael, who grinned whenever she sat down at the interview table, "You know, after all those years of watching crime procedurals, you discover just how transparent interrogation techniques can be. For example, they sent you in here because you look like Carrie. They're hoping you'll throw me off, unsettle me on some level."

"And is it working?" Alex asked, her tone remaining neutral.

"Depends on what the desired result was," he leaned forward, arching his brow suggestively.

Alex immediately wanted a shower, but she shoved back the now-familiar feeling—she'd have many more miles to travel into the dirt of this man's mind before this was all said and done, and she couldn't do her job properly if she let her sense of revulsion override her rationale.

"Why would Carrie be a trigger for you?" She set her hands on the table, clasping them in front of her, leaning her shoulders in slightly to show that she was interested in hearing his story, open to whatever excuse he might try to provide.

"I didn't say she was. But  _you_  think she is."

"Ah, I see," she ducked her head. "I inferred, but you didn't actually imply."

"Exactly."

From the other side of the glass, Morgan gave a heavy sigh. "This is going to be a long night."

* * *

Derek Morgan's words rang prophetic, because it would be another six hours before they finally discovered Schechter's hide-away forty miles outside of Plainfield, along with Delia Anderson, who was severely dehydrated and barely alive—but still, she was alive, and that counted as a victory.

The flight home was quiet, as usual, as everyone tried to catch up on the sleep they'd lost during the past few days, with the exception of Hotch and Rossi—the former was briefing Chief Strauss over the phone, while the latter listened, a soft smile gracing his face whenever he first heard the cadence of her voice. He couldn't make out her words, but he could tell that the vein of conversation had turned to the Replicator, because Hotch's brow furrowed as he answered, "So far, Garcia has not found an identifiable pattern or connection between the six women who didn't make the list. She pulled the same comparisons for the locations and victims that were on the list, and there's nothing there, either. I'll have Reid geo-profile the coordinates of the unlisted women when we get back, but I think that should wait until tomorrow."

Strauss was speaking again and Hotch nodded in agreement with whatever she said, looking around to make sure he wasn't disturbing the others. "If Blake's invitation theory is correct, we may still have time to predict his next move. But I don't want us to get trapped by following only one line of thinking. The team's been running at full-steam for two weeks straight, and we haven't had the time to truly look at it from all angles yet."

Rossi could tell by the pitch of Strauss' tone that she was agreeing with him. Hotch gave another curt nod. "We land in two hours; I'll have the action reports on your desk by tomorrow morning...You, too, Erin."

He ended the call and turned back to the older agent, quietly admitting, "Sometimes I think Strauss is more shook up about the Replicator than we are."

"She's not as accustomed to dealing with these types of things as we are," Rossi shrugged.

"True." Hotch agreed. He waited a beat before asking, "What did she want to speak to you about, before we left for Plainfield?"

Rossi saw the same mischievous glint in Hotch's eye that had been in Derek Morgan's. Sweet Jesus in short-pants, he was never gonna hear the end of it. However, with Aaron, he chose honesty, "She'd heard that Yates' case had been connected to the Replicator, and she just wanted to see if I was alright."

"That was very kind of her," Hotch said diplomatically. There was a smile dancing just at the corner of his mouth.

"It was," David agreed, turning to look out the plane window.

"So, does this mean that there's something happening between you two again?"

"Again?" David turned back to the younger man. "What makes you think there was anything happening before?"

Aaron gave a light shrug, "I remember, just a few months after I'd transferred to Quantico, you and Strauss had a huge fight—over her promotion. I remember her storming out of your office, and seeing you topple an entire filing cabinet. I thought then there was something more going on than just a spat about a job position."

"Well, aren't you just a master profiler?"

"I had a good mentor." That was a compliment directed at Rossi, and he knew that. Hotch's face filled with concern as he quietly added, "Just be careful, Dave."

Despite the irritation that he felt at Hotch's warning, David understood that it was coming from a good place, so he simply nodded.

"I'm going to interpret that as an admission of guilt," Hotch informed him.

"You'd have to have some proof first," David shot back easily.

"Well, I think the fact that you boarded the plane wearing her lipstick is pretty solid evidence."

The older man swore under his breath, "I hate profilers."

"Luckily for you, Erin Strauss doesn't seem to share that sentiment."

David shot the younger man a baleful look at that comment, but Aaron could see the smile dancing behind his eyes. He held up his hands in mock surrender, "That was the last one, I swear. It was too good to pass up."

Rossi simply shook his head with a wry grin. In all honesty, he didn't really give a damn who knew about his feelings for Erin—so long as they didn't use it as ammunition against the section chief. Now that they were both divorced, there was no reason to hide anymore (although the idea of stolen moments in the office and furtive kisses in the hallway might actually be a fun little challenge, David mused). But all of this had come into being simply because a year ago, David had finally realized that he was tired of hiding, tired of pretending, tired of forgetting and brushing away the memories created between them, and as fun as sneaking around might seem, it would not compare to the sheer relief of being able to finally acknowledge the claim that a certain infuriating blonde had held over his heart for the past two decades.

He knew what it felt like, to be on the outside looking into Erin's life and affection, and he never wanted to know that feeling again.

* * *

**December 2004. Washington, D.C.**

That laugh. That short, sharp, full-throated bark of a laugh—David Rossi would know it anywhere. Even here, in a ballroom filled with hundreds of people talking and laughing and arguing, even over the strains of the live band and the soft swish of gowns trailing across the polished wood of the dance floor.

He turned to the sound, his dark eyes searching for the source. He heard it again—this time it was muffled, but he could tell that he was getting closer. He moved around a group of tuxedos and then he saw her.

She had her face buried in her husband's arm, her shoulders shaking as she tried to contain her mirth. Her husband was regaling their companions with some story, and they seemed equally amused by his words.

She turned back to them, her face bright and animated as she exclaimed, "It was  _horrible_! There was this awful, awkward pause, and then Paul says—"

"Then I say, 'That's what happens when you let a stock broker choose the restaurant!'"

The group erupted into howls of laughter. Erin was shaking her head in mock despair, her eyes twinkling as she glanced back up at her husband with the knowing warmth that can only be shared by a couple who've shared many years, many memories, and many inside jokes. Paul's arm moved around her waist, resting on her hip with an easy familiarity.

David suddenly understood why she saw him as nothing more than a fling.  _Water seeks its own level_ , his mama used to say, and he saw it in living, breathing truth—Paul and Erin Strauss were cut from the same cloth, and it showed. He stared at them, with their light hair and bright eyes, a perfect WASP couple straight out of a Norman Rockwell Americana painting, his silk tie perfectly matching her midnight blue gown, so at-ease and at-home with one another and their surroundings, as he stood there, a Catholic Dago with his dark looks and unpolished ways, so obviously out-of-place in this room filled with high-and-mighty political players and stock brokers and trust fund babies and Ivy League types.

She spotted him, and her face lit up (she didn't even have the decency to look slightly embarrassed to see her former lover while standing in the presence of her husband, David thought sourly) as she moved towards him, "David! David, how are you?"

At that point, the older man realized that she might be drunk. That explained the twinkling eyes and bright smile as she wrapped her arm around him, guiding him back to her group, "Paul, darling, this is David Rossi, a former colleague from the FBI. David, this is my husband, Paul."

"Pleasure to meet you, David," Paul Strauss smiled and shook his hand.

"Same here," David replied, and it was a lie straight from the pits of hell.

Erin turned to their two other companions, "And this is Dean Satterwhite, and Colin Chance."

More handshakes, more nods and pleasantries.

"Former FBI, eh?" Dean Satterwhite smiled pleasantly, taking another sip from his champagne glass. "So what's your take on the new interim director who'll be coming in this January?"

"He's an idiot," David replied succinctly, not at all surprised to see the consternation in the faces staring back at him.

"He happens to be an old family friend," Colin Chance commented.

"Then you know better than anyone that I'm right," David said smoothly. He could feel Erin's body tensing up next to him, but he continued anyways, "I remember him from my days in the Bureau, and I know him well enough to know he has absolutely no field experience worth mentioning, which means he doesn't really understand what he's doing or what kind of situations he's sending his agents into—although, promoting armchair generals into high positions seems to be quite a trend at the Bureau these days."

Erin flinched again, and David knew that he'd hit his mark. It was petty, bringing up old battles, but Erin wasn't the only one who'd had a bit to drink tonight, and he couldn't deny the pang of jealousy he'd felt the instant he'd seen her with Paul, which had developed into a slow burning anger at how flippant she'd been towards him, inviting him over and smiling as if there had never been a single moment shared between them. He felt foolish and used and insignificant, which were not things that David Rossi enjoyed feeling.

Still, he knew he'd crossed a line, so David added, "I have no personal feelings against the man; my main concern is for the agents and the agency itself."

Dean and Paul were nodding in agreement; Erin was focused on the pattern in the flooring as if it held some great riddle. Colin shrugged and the matter was abandoned. They moved on to the less-explosive topic of the stock market, and after a few more minutes of conversation, David excused himself and headed back to the bar.

A half hour later, he felt a shift behind him, and he knew that Erin was nearby. He saw her lean into the bar, quietly giving her order to the bartender, and his mind returned to the moment they'd met (nineteen years ago...had it really been nineteen years?).

She must have known he was there, because she sidled up to him, allowing a moment of silence before she asked in a low tone, "Do you want to explain what that was back there?"

"No, I don't."

"I see."

"Do you?" He challenged, setting his drink down on the bar again.

Her grey-green eyes locked onto his brown ones and she suddenly seemed much more sober than she had been earlier. "I see more than you think I do, David."

"And what do you see, kitten?" He drawled, arching his eyebrow questioningly.

She blinked back another hurt look before answering, "You're mad at me. For Paul."

"I'm not mad at you for being with your husband, Erin." It was a lie and they both knew it was a lie.

Still, she simply nodded, "Good. Because you shouldn't be. You don't have the right."

"That's absolutely right. I don't." He agreed.

"Then…" She sidled even closer, her bare shoulder brushing against his smooth tuxedo jacket. "Then what's going on?"

"I have no patience for pretentiousness," he answered easily, so easily that he almost convinced himself. He pulled his drink closer again. "And I have even less patience for people who try to discuss topics which they know nothing about."

Part of that was directed at her, and she knew that. She ducked her head at the blow, hiding her hurt by taking a draught of her vodka tonic. She was past the point of actually being able to taste the alcohol, and she knew she'd regret it in a few hours. But for now, she was grateful for the numbing qualities. She schooled her voice into a neutral tone before speaking, "You generally aren't this passive-aggressive, David. I suppose old age has mellowed you."

"Whaddya want from me, Erin?" He asked tiredly, keeping his gaze focused straight ahead. "You want me to yell and be angry and jealous and break glasses? You want me to upset this perfect little moment in your perfect little life?"

"No," she said quietly, although deep down, she knew that in some ways, it was a lie. She had no illusions about David Rossi—he was the Casanova of Quantico, the dark-eyed charmer, a man who'd spent many nights with many different women. For awhile, she'd thought that he cared for her, but over the past two years since their last fateful parting, she'd convinced herself that she'd merely been another notch in his belt, another warm body to pass another cold night, a fleeting fancy and nothing more. It was childish and silly, but all she wanted was for him to show some sign that the little voice in her head was wrong. Sadly, right now he was proving her doubts to be truths.

Erin Strauss had learned a valuable lesson from her many battles—knowing when to simply throw in the towel. So she downed the rest of her drink and said the one thing that she wished he would say to her, "I didn't want to hurt you, David. And I'm sorry if I have."

The corner of his mouth turned into a sour smile, "Don't you worry your pretty little head about that, kitten. In order to be hurt by something, you actually have to care about it first."

He didn't have to look at her to know that his arrow hit its mark—he could physically feel her body contract, as acutely as if he'd actually punched her in the gut. She ducked her head again, pushing her now-empty glass back across the bar.

"Well, David, it's been a pleasure, as always," she whispered, and this time, she couldn't keep the hurt from her voice. She straightened her shoulders and walked away, back to her husband, back to her charming companions and her charming life and her bland jokes about stock brokers and family connections and things that would never mean anything to David.

In a moment of weakness, he turned to watch her go. As usual, she didn't look back. David realized how foolish he'd been, after all these years, thinking that Erin had actually felt something for him—now it was painfully obvious how happy she was with her little slice of American life, with her handsome husband and her three perfect children, with her shining career and her charmed existence. The last time they'd been together, she'd admitted that he was something special to her, and suddenly he realized exactly what made him special. He was her dirty little secret. There was a reason that dirty little secrets lived up to their names—they made you feel guilty and horrible and ashamed, they were the things you hid, the things to which you never admitted, the weaknesses for which you always ended up hating yourself.

She brushed her shoulder against her husband's arm; he automatically reached his hand around to gently rub her bare shoulders (which were soft and smooth, David knew, even though he shouldn't) before it traveled further down, quickly giving her ass a squeeze before settling firmly on the small of her back. David knew, with startling and painful clarity, that Erin would go home and fuck her husband tonight, in a sweaty, semi-drunken state, would fall asleep in his arms, her head resting on his chest, and in the morning, she wouldn't be ashamed or pull away or refuse to return his kisses.

Erin turned to glance back at David. With one look at his face, she knew that he'd seen the entire exchange. Part of her was glad.  _I hope that hurt you as much as your apathy hurt me_.  _I hope I made you finally feel_ something _towards me_.

He simply walked away, out the double doors of the ballroom, through the grand foyer and into the cold December night. She didn't come after him. He didn't expect her to. She'd made her choice years ago, the same choice she made tonight, and he'd been an absolute fool for thinking that everything they'd been through was enough to make up for the simple security of a man who was all that David wasn't.

The cold air seemed like a slap in the face after the warm haze of the ballroom, and in that moment, David Rossi felt as if he'd finally broken through whatever hold Erin Strauss had held over his heart for all those years. He was finally, truly, a free man. He expected to feel light and airy, but for some reason, freedom felt desolate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This last section was inspired by a scene from "House of Cards", which also stars the lovely JA, who is absolutely brill, per usual. Just FYI.


	12. Surprise

_ "There is no surprise more magical than the surprise of being loved." _

_ ~Charles Morgan. _

* * *

**April 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

After her impetuous hallway lip-lock with David, Erin told herself that she wouldn't be so ridiculous again. She was a grown woman, fifty-fucking-four years old and far past the excuse of raging hormones and a still-developing prefrontal lobe, a professional woman who would not and could not devolve into a love-struck idiot, looking for excuses to stop by David's office or grabbing him and kissing him in doorways and shadows.

She was fairly certain that her 90-day stint in detox had been easier to bear than the constant battle she waged against her own foolish impulses when it came to David Rossi.

Luckily (or perhaps unluckily, depending on how you looked at it), David seemed to be suffering from the same symptoms. It was as if all the things that they hadn't allowed themselves to feel for the past two decades had suddenly come to a boil, and now those emotions and sensations were boiling over the top, completely drowning them both in a fiery deluge.

It was only his first day back in the office after the case in Plainfield, and he'd already stopped by her office to "drop off the action reports", which ended with her pressed up against her credenza hutch, his mouth locked onto hers as his hands appreciated the delicate details of her silk blouse (she'd threatened him within an inch of his life if he mussed up her immaculate outfit, and he'd merely grinned), followed by her "innocently" rubbing against him in the elevator as she moved over to allow several other Bureau employees to board. During a briefing, she'd pretended to pay rapt attention to Garcia, leaning over slightly more than necessary so that he got a clear view down the front of her blouse (which he'd so admired earlier that morning), and as they were all filing out of the conference room, his hand had swiped the curve of her ass, so lightly that no one else noticed, but she'd had to bite her lip and think of very serious things to keep from blushing and giving away their little game.

They were behaving like a pair of horny teenagers. It was embarrassing and completely unprofessional, and yet, they couldn't seem to help themselves. In all the years, in all the strange twists and turns that their relationship had taken, they'd never been physically affectionate, aside from the few brief nights in hotel rooms, and it was something new, something strange and exciting and scary and wonderful.

The day was over and they were both in the elevator, on their way home (David filled with the sneaking suspicion that she'd stayed late just to be able to leave at the same time as he did). There were other occupants in the elevator car, as usual, but David reached for her hand, so naturally and so casually that it stirred yet another wave of warm happiness in the pit of Erin's stomach as she felt the firm grip of his fingers encasing her smaller hand. She blushed slightly, which he noticed and thought was thoroughly adorable. She looked up, those light eyes latching onto those dark ones, and for the rest of the elevator ride, they were in their own little world.

They stopped holding hands as they exited the elevator, though they still walked together to Erin's vehicle.

"We are ridiculous," she said calmly, though there was still a smile playing at the corner of her lips.

"Do you want to stop?"

"Nope."

"Good." He looked around casually, making sure the coast was clear, before pulling her closer to him again. She turned her face up to his expectantly, and he could feel her smiling against his mouth when he kissed her.

"You know there are security cameras out here," she whispered, not looking too concerned.

"I'm sure they've seen more scandalous things," he assured her.

"Is that a challenge?" Her voice dipped into a purr, and the knowing smirk on her delicious thin lips was enough to make David want to throw her in the backseat of her crossover.

"It could be," he returned in a low tone, pulling her hips into his as his mouth found its favorite resting place—the pulse point at the base of her neck.

She gave a chuckle, which devolved into a hum as David Rossi's magical mouth began to set her skin on fire.

Her cell phone rang, jarring them both back into reality. He pulled back, giving her room to move as she fumbled through her purse, finally finding her cell. She gave a light sigh when she saw her daughter's name on the caller ID, "Yes, Anna Claire, I'm on my way home now."

Anna apparently made some saucy retort, because Erin merely rolled her eyes heavenward. David chuckled, leaning forward to kiss the tip of her nose. She gently traced the curve of his jaw as they silently said goodnight. He turned and headed towards his car, feeling the heat of Erin's gaze following him as he walked away.

"Yes. Now. I'm at my car right now." She opened the car door and tossed her purse across the cab and into the passenger seat. Turning to give one last look over her shoulder, her eyes found David, across the parking garage, at his own car. He looked up, smiling softly at her. She returned the smile, her mind suddenly wondering how on earth she was going to survive tomorrow without ending up sprawled across her desk or some other inanimate object with a certain dark, handsome man who could stop her heart with a single glance.

* * *

Penelope Garcia rubbed her weary eyes before turning her attention back to the screen, "OK, so the wooded area where Bristol Evatt's body was found is now an outlet mall."

"Then we can take her off the list," Reid informed her. "Our UNSUB can't replicate the crime if the setting has changed too much."

"That still leaves us with five locations," the technical analyst pointed out.

"And no idea what we're looking for at any of them," Reid added tiredly. Garcia's lair was dark and warm, which didn't help the sleepiness creeping into his bones. He glanced back down at the list of names and coordinates. He'd wracked his brain trying to find some kind of pattern between the geographic points, some connection between the women themselves, but all to no avail. Every hour that ticked by increased the sinking feeling that he was failing this test, that he was missing some obvious detail, that his ineptitude was costing his team valuable time.

The phone next to Garcia's computer rang, and she answered, hitting the speakerphone button, "Garcia the Great and Fabulous at your service."

"Why are you still here?" Hotch's voice came across the line.

"Because I am slowly becoming a member of the tribe of the undead, sir."

"Go home. And tell Reid to go home, too. You've done enough today, get some sleep and start over with fresh eyes in the morning. That's an order." Hotch hung up without another word.

Garcia looked back at the young doctor, "Have you ever wondered how he just  _knows_  these things?"

Reid shrugged, "I've always had a theory that he's part superhuman."

"He would make a good Clark Kent," her eyes lit up at the thought. "I think I know what I'm gonna get him to dress up as for Hallowe'en."

"I can't imagine Hotch dressing up for Hallowe'en," Spencer admitted. "Not even as a kid."

Garcia hummed in agreement, frowning as she tried to picture Aaron Hotchner as a child. But she was tired and her imagination had been taxed too much during the day, so she gave up with a slight shake of her head, standing to gather her things, "Come, my good doctor—the time has come to talk of other things, of shoes and ships and ceiling wax—"

"Of cabbages and kings," Spencer finished with a small smile, his frustration at his lack of progress temporarily relieved by Penelope's whimsy.

The blonde leaned forward with a grin, prompting, "And why the sea is boiling hot…"

"And whether pigs have wings," he added, his own smile deepening as his friend hooked her arm through his and led him out into the hallway.

"I have faith in you, you know," she said it so breezily, so nonchalantly that Reid knew it must be true. "I have faith in all my little profiling geniuses. We'll get this creep, my friend. We'll get this guy, and it will all be over. We'll all live happily ever after, end of story."

Spencer didn't have the heart to correct her, or to point out that fairy tales were just that—vain hopes and empty promises, the quiet desperations of times long ago and people long forgotten. He found himself hoping that just once, just this once, logic and probability wouldn't win out.

* * *

**Vienna, Virginia.**

"Did you remember to pack your retainer?" Erin called up the stairs as she finished tidying up the kitchen.

She heard Anna groan, "I don't see why I still have to wear it—it's been  _years_  since I got my braces off—"

"Because I spent thousands of dollars on that beautiful smile of yours, and I won't have it ruined simply because you're too vain to wear a retainer in your sleep," Erin shot back.

"I'm not gonna wear this stupid thing for the rest of my life—"

"But you are going to wear it as long as I'm the one still paying for your dental hygiene."

There was a grumble from the upstairs bedroom.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Mother."

Erin simply shook her head in exasperation, turning on the dishwasher before scooping up the cat, who'd been patiently waiting at her feet.

"I should've just stuck to pets," she murmured to the feline. "You're much less expensive, and you still let me cuddle with you."

The cat purred in response as Erin scratched behind his ears. Her cell phone buzzed, skittering across the dark granite countertop as it vibrated. Situating the cat so that she held him with one hand, she reached for her cell with the other. She didn't recognize the number, but she answered anyways, "Erin Strauss."

"Erin. It's Ralph. Ralph Richardson."

"Ralph!" Erin beamed in surprise.

"I'm sorry to call so late—"

"Oh, it's not late at all."

"This was the number that Penelope Garcia listed for the RSVP—"

"Oh, for David's surprise party." Erin suddenly understood. "Does that mean you'll be here?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"That's great, Ralph." Erin was grinning madly now. "I know David will be thrilled to see you."

"How's he doing?" Ralph's voice was filled with gentle concern.

"He's good," Erin lost her grin. "His birthday is never easy, not since Yates was caught—"

"Yeah, I heard about that. Pretty twisted." Ralph sighed. "But if anyone can deal with that kind of pressure, it's David Rossi."

She gave a small hum of agreement, although deep down, she knew the truth—David couldn't deal with it any better than the next person, he simply shielded his true reaction from everyone else, hiding the pain and the sorrow and bravely shouldering the burden, because he never wanted to be a nuisance by showing that he was human and in need of others' support. But that was part of the secret side of David Rossi, the part that only she got to see, and like David, she was finding that she was quite covetous when it came to the memories and little truths between them.

"Well, I know it's late," Ralph spoke again. "But I wanted to let you know that I'll be there."

"Great. Can't wait to see you, Ralph."

"Take care, Erin."

She ended the call, smiling softly as she mentally checked another name off the list—with Penelope's help, she'd tracked down as many of David's old Bureau buddies as she could, and they'd sent out emails inviting them to come to Virginia to surprise David the night before his birthday. Erin would have preferred surprising him on his actual birthday, but since he almost always set out to inform the victim's family as soon as he received the name, it was practically impossible to plan such a thing.

"You're planning a surprise party for David Rossi?" The sound of Anna's voice nearly made Erin jump out of her skin.

"Jesus, child," she clutched the poor cat to her chest, who meowed in protest. "Are you trying to give your mother a heart attack?"

"I thought he was just a colleague," her daughter would not be deterred.

"You're gonna be late—you know your dad gets worried when you drive so late at night," Erin set down the cat, turning her attention to her daughter.

"You know what we call that, Mom? Avoidance." Anna handed her mother another bag to carry out to her car.

"I'm not avoiding anything, Anna. I'm just not discussing this with you. Not now." Erin walked down the hall and into the garage.

"But you aren't denying anything, either."

"Nor am I confirming anything." Erin opened the trunk of her daughter's car and tossed the bag in. "He's just a friend."

"Well, that's a step up from colleague. Looks like Agent Rossi is on the fast-track."

This earned Anna a dark look from her mother. Still, she wasn't daunted.

"You know, Dad never tries to hide his dates."

Erin fought back a wave of irritation at her daughter for playing the 'Dad Never Does' card. "I'm not hiding anything, Anna, because there's nothing to hide. At least not yet."

"So you're saying there might be something to hide in the future?" Anna asked hopefully, tossing her backpack in the trunk and shutting it.

"I don't know."

"How do you not know?" The teen was incredulous. "You obviously like him, and he totally has the hots for you—"

"What makes you say that?" Erin asked, trying to keep the curious note from her voice and failing.

"Mom," Anna gave a knowing grin. "When he was following you up the stairs, he was totally scoping out your ass—"

"Anna Claire!"

"What? It's true. You asked; I told the truth."

"I love you," Erin kissed her daughter's forehead. "Now go to your father's house, before I have to hurt you."

The teen just grinned, wrapping her mother into a hug. "I'll text you when I get there."

"Good girl."

"I love you, Mom," Anna hopped in the front seat of her little Honda Civic, flashing her mother one last smile as she added, "And don't wait too long to figure out what's going on between you two. You're not getting any younger, ya know."

"When you say things like that, you make me feel blessed to have endured all nineteen hours of labor to bring you into this world," Erin returned drolly. This earned her another impish grin from her youngest offspring, who started the car and backed out of the drive way, giving one last wave as she headed off to spend the week with her father.

Erin wrapped her arms around herself, taking a moment to stare up at the stars. She didn't want to go back inside, to an empty house and a quiet bed. A shiver ran down her spine at the thought that soon, perhaps she wouldn't be spending her weeks without Anna alone—perhaps she'd have someone else to sit on the patio with, talking under the stars or cooking or making love or reading side-by-side or one of the other thousands of small intimacies that came with being in a relationship. However, it wasn't the little moments that she anticipated—it was the sheer fact that they would be spent with one man, a man who'd patiently waited for her love, whom she'd patiently waited to love. Once the Replicator was caught (she had no doubt he would be, such was her whole-hearted faith in the BAU), she would have to finally share the ugly dark truth with David about what really happened the first time in Seattle, and she felt with a certain sense of dreaded predestination that it would effectively end everything between them. So until then, she would drink long and deeply from the cup of love. It was a scary decision, to commit to diving fully into whatever strange whirlpool of emotions that lay just beneath the surface of her relationship with David, knowing it could never last, but at the same time, she felt oddly proud of herself. Erin Strauss was not a risk-taker, in love or any other aspect of life, and yet, here she was,  _carpe'ing the freaking diem_ , as her brother Andrew was so fond of saying.

Right now, all of her energy and focus was going into David's birthday celebrations. There were still a few loose ends that needed to be tied up, but she was certain that she could accomplish her mission without arousing David's suspicions. He might be a master profiler of human behavior, but she was a master of distraction—based on their brief-but-heated encounters throughout the day, she was pretty sure that she could keep David Rossi too preoccupied to notice anything else.

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia.**

"It's less than 2 hours away, so we'll be taking cars instead of the plane," Hotch finished the briefing, rising to his feet as he dismissed his agents. "Grab your things and meet at the motor pool in twenty minutes."

"Agent Hotchner," Erin Strauss called softly as she moved around the table—she'd sat in on the briefing this morning, being oddly quiet as she'd listened to the team discuss their newest case, a kidnapping in southern Virginia.

Hotch turned to her and she made a slight motion towards his office, "May I have a word with you?"

He simply nodded and headed towards the door, knowing that she was right behind him. Once they were inside his office and the door was closed, he asked quietly, "What can I do for you, Erin?"

"Well, it's more about what you can do for Agent Rossi," she admitted, and Hotch felt a slight wave of unease. Noting his hesitancy, she quickly added, "It's for his birthday. Penelope Garcia is already helping me plan a bit of a surprise for him, but we're going to need your help, too."

Hotch would have been less surprised if Erin Strass had produced a chainsaw and hacked his desk in twain. Over the years, Aaron had come to see a softer side of his section chief, but planning a surprise birthday party still seemed too… _pedestrian_ …for the cool and polished Erin.

"Agent Hotchner?" The gentle cadence of her voice brought him back to reality.

"I would be happy to help," he answered quickly.

"Good," she gave a small smile of relief. She informed him of the role that she needed him to play in their little charade, giving him one last Strauss Specialty Ice Glare before she left, adding, "I expect you to be the soul of discretion, Agent Hotchner. I expect David Rossi to be truly and thoroughly surprised."

"I understand," he replied, understanding the silent threat behind Erin's expectations. He was still slightly amazed to see her using her Ice Queen powers for good. Two days ago, on the flight back from Plainfield, he'd quietly warned Dave about pursuing a relationship with Erin Strauss, because he feared it might be a one-sided thing (after all, his friend wasn't the most cautious or wisest when it came to his dealings with women). But in less than three minutes, Erin had proven that the playing field might actually be level when it came to the affection between her and Dave.

Stranger things had happened, Hotch knew that. But at the moment, he couldn't think of a single example.

* * *

**May 2013. Vienna, Virginia.**

Keeping David distracted for the next week had actually been easier than Erin had hoped—the team bounced from case to case, jetting around the country with only a day or two of down time. On the only evening that he had been in the office, they'd held hands in the elevator and made out in the parking garage like a pair of teenagers again. She'd wanted more than anything to ask him back to her place, but she'd summoned every ounce of self-control and kept her head (barely), because she wanted him to savor every second of anticipation—another part of her well-crafted birthday surprise, and gods be damned if she allowed her desire to ruin the plan.

She'd stayed on her toes, carefully scheduling her secret trips to Penelope Garcia's office to finish their plans—she'd let Aaron inform the rest of the team, and neither he nor Garcia were allowed to tell the others that Erin was the mastermind, because she still wasn't sure if David wanted anyone to know about their budding relationship, and she knew that not everyone would be delighted to attend a party hosted by the wicked bitch of the Bureau.

Several of David's former colleagues and old buddies had agreed to make the trip to Quantico, some hailing from Philadelphia, some from D.C., and even one from Florida. Erin was filled with childish glee at the thought that she was truly going to floor David Rossi tonight—in more ways than one.

She gave a slight grimace as she pulled at the underwire of her bra one last time, adjusting her dress in the mirror again. She'd gone out and gotten an entirely new set of lingerie for the occasion (it felt too strange, dressing up for David in things that she'd bought to please Paul), and her new bra lifted her breasts to heights that hadn't been attained in at least the last fifteen years. She felt a little ridiculous at first, but as soon as she slipped into her stilettos, her confidence returned. She appraised her ensemble in the full-length mirror, giving her reflection a devilish grin.

_Watch out, David Rossi. I'm coming for you._

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia.**

David rubbed his forehead—a sure sign that he was irritated—as he closed the folder in his lap and set it back on Hotch's desk. Aaron had asked him to consult on an arson case in San Francisco, but honestly, it was so easy that the younger man could have handled it himself.

"We're glad to be of assistance," Hotch reassured the police chief on the other end of the line before hanging up. He glanced at his watch casually, and David thought he looked almost relieved.

"Anything else I can do for you?" David asked, his tone holding the slightest hint of sarcasm. "Perhaps help you catch up on your filing?"

"I thought it was going to be a more complex case," Hotch admitted easily. "I'm sorry if you feel that your time was wasted."

"It wasn't wasted," David assured him, suddenly feeling contrite. He'd been snappish all day, and he knew why, "It's just that tomorrow's the day I go see Yates, and you know how I get."

"I do," the younger man simply nodded in understanding. He also knew why David had requested the next day off—so that as soon as he received the name, he could track down the family. The next 24 hours were promising to be emotional and stressful for his friend, and Aaron was grateful for the fact that at least for the next two or three hours, Dave was going to be too distracted to think about it.

"If there's nothing else, I think I'm going to head home," David rose to his feet.

"Actually, I need you to have a look at one more case," Hotch replied, noting the exasperation in the older man's expression. "It won't take long. I left the file in the conference room—we can go over the details on the way to the elevators."

David simply nodded, following his friend across the landing to the conference room, whose door was oddly closed. As soon as Hotch opened the door, a chorus of voices belted out, "Surprise!"

David stood in the doorway, stunned by the sight that met his eyes. Aside from the BAU team, there were familiar faces around the conference table, which was covered in booze and food.

"What on earth?" He couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face.

"Buon Compleanno, Mio Amore," Garcia bounded up to him, planting a kiss on his cheek. "You didn't let us celebrate last year, so we decided to plan a little get-together to make up for it this time around."

He hugged her tightly, whispering his thanks before moving across the room to his old friends—Ralph Richardson, who still looked like a kid; Alan Arkaday, looking a little worse for wear but still victorious over his last bout of cancer; Rutherford Golden, still dashing and charming, like a new-age Clark Gable; Abigail Van Hals, smiling with her usual demure expression.

"What are you doing here?" He hugged each of them, taking a moment to look at them, these living pieces of his life and memory.

"Penelope tracked us down—she said she wanted to bring in all your buddies from back in the day," Ralph answered with a grin as he looked at the others. "I guess we're the last ones standing."

"The proud and the few," Abigail quipped with a wry salute.

David turned back to the technical analyst, "You really did all this?"

"Well, Erin was the one who gave me the names," Penelope answered, moving closer and handing him a Dixie cup of liquor. Over the past week, their secret planning meetings had removed the tension between the two blondes, and now Penelope found herself referring to the section chief by her first name (although never to her face, because Erin Strauss still held some sway over Penelope's fear reflex).

David suddenly noticed that the blonde section chief was absent, "Where is she?"

"She had a minor family emergency," Penelope supplied. "She sends her regrets and says that she hopes you have a wonderful time."

David nodded, trying not to let his disappointment show. Of course, his attention was quickly distracted by his old pals, who soon began peppering him with questions about his work and his life, and cracking jokes about his age, and proposing toasts to old memories and future endeavors.

Two hours later, he looked around the room, and the sight filled his heart with warmth—Abigail and Alex were seated side-by-side, catching up from their days together in Missouri; Ralph was cracking jokes with Penelope and Derek, while Alan was nodding, intently listening to Spencer expound the merits of some kind of new forensic procedure; JJ and Hotch were standing in the corner, chatting with Ruthie Golden. This was the strange family he'd cobbled together over the years spent in the Bureau, the ones who'd stuck around through thick and thin, the relationships that had outlived his marriages, the people who somehow restored his faith in humanity and his fervor for his work. The only thing wrong with this picture was that one person in particular was missing, and he was missing her.

He checked his watch, sighing as he remembered what a hard day lay ahead for him. With one last round of hugs and back-slaps and warm jokes and soft farewells, David Rossi left his own birthday party, a lovely new case of gentleman Jack under his arm (a collective gift from all his old colleagues, who all warmly remembered the days when he'd buy such things to celebrate the end of a case, and they'd all end up in his hotel room, drinking to a hard day's work).

The drive home was quiet as David smiled at the thought of how sweet Erin's surprise had been (Penelope had later confessed that it was all the older woman's idea). Again, he wished that she'd been there, so that he could thank her for the kindness. He knew that she was trying to give him something good to remember, something to help him through tomorrow, which undoubtedly would be one of the worst days of the year for him.

His headlights sliced through the darkness surrounding his house, and he could see the sleek outline of the black suburban which held his home security detail for the evening. He parked the car, bequeathed a bottle of whiskey to his two details (for later, of course, because they'd never drink on the job), and then made his way up the steps to his front door. He could hear the staccato pounding of Mudgie's paws on the wooden slats of the wrap-around porch, and he turned to see the lab rounding the corner of the house, giving an excited yip at the familiar sound of his master's voice. He opened the door, setting the case of whiskey down and taking a moment to rub the dog's head affectionately, talking softly to the lab before closing the door and turning on the foyer light.

He turned around and nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of Erin Strauss leaning against the dining room entryway. She looked like a modern Jackie O, in her navy double-breasted dress with a full pleated skirt, with her hair pulled back into a twist, as it had been all day at work. Her makeup was darker, the kohl around her eyes intensifying their cat-like appearance and turning them into burning beacons that could stop a man in his tracks with a single glance. She knew she'd surprised him, because her thin lips curled into a wicked smile and the light in her entrancing eyes twinkled with knowing amusement.

"Happy birthday, David."


	13. Gifts

_"When the weariness of the road is upon me, and the thirst of the sultry day; when the ghostly hours of the dusk throw their shadows across my life, then I cry not for your voice only, my friend, but for your touch...Put out your hand through the night, let me hold it and fill it and keep it; let me feel its touch along the lengthening stretch of my loneliness."_

_~Rabindranath Tagore._

* * *

 

 

**May 2013. Rural Virginia.**

David Rossi stood in the front foyer, his heart in his throat at the sight of the woman standing so casually in his house as if she'd spent her whole life there. He glanced back at the front door, at the carport, which only held one car, to the two security details who hadn't even seemed aware of her presence.

"How'd you get here?" He knew that this wasn't really the time for questions, but his naturally curious mind had to know.

"Taxi," she answered easily, an amused smirk on her lovely features as she watched him try to mentally unravel the little mystery that ended with her in his foyer.

"Do they know?" He motioned back to the black suburban.

"Not yet."

"How the hell did you get in my house?"

With a slightly sheepish grin, she reached into her dress pocket and pulled out a small torsion wrench and half pick on a chain, holding it up as she explained, "I picked up several valuable skills during my stint in Organized Crime."

"Remind me never to piss you off ever again," he quipped, and she laughed in the deep, open way that he loved so much.

"Trust me, I'm the one who should've been scared, sneaking into the house and planning to surprise a man who keeps a Springfield strapped to his hip at all times."

"I see you overcame that fear," he commented, moving closer to her. She moved forward as well, pulling his body into hers.

"Some things are worth the risk."

Her stilettos were higher than the pumps she wore at the office, and now she was just as tall as he was, their current heights mimicking the levels of their faces when they made love—a small detail, but an intoxicating one. She pressed against his chest, kissing the corner of his mouth lightly as she tenderly asked, "Did you enjoy your party?"

"I would have enjoyed it more if you were there," he answered truthfully, the tip of his nose running the length of her jaw, taking in the scent and warmth of her skin. She was wearing a different perfume, something heavier, something darker and much more  _Erin_  than the light floral scent that she wore at the office.

She simply hummed, smiling softly as she whispered, "I was too busy engaging in illegal activity on your behalf."

"It's only illegal if you aren't welcome," he reminded her.

"And am I?" Her eyebrow arched in question. She was being playful, but he could still see the brief wave of uncertainty in her green eyes.

His hands traveled the length of her dress, finding the curves hidden by her pleated skirt, "You most certainly are."

She leaned forward again, capturing his mouth with her own, her tongue parting his lips and finding that familiar spark of electricity as it rediscovered the warmth of his. She pulled back, giving another breathless smile as she moved away, grabbing his hand as she led him into the dining room.

On the table sat an ornately carved box, next to another white box with a simple silk ribbon tied around it. Erin turned to him expectantly, practically giddy with excitement and nerves as she motioned to the boxes, "You still have presents to open."

He shook his head softly, smiling at the unexpected tokens of affection. "What is all this?"

"Open the wooden box first," she directed, and he obeyed. Inside the beautifully carved box was a set of his favorite cigars.

"Those are still your favorites, aren't they?" Erin stepped forward nervously. "I remembered those were the ones you ordered last year."

She didn't finish the sentence— _last year, at the hotel, when we bumped into each other in the lobby and ended up in bed together again, last year, when you changed everything, when we changed everything, when we started down this road_ —but he knew all that she was trying to say and capture in this gift.

"They are," he replied with a soft smile. "Erin, you shouldn't have—"

"You still have another gift," she interrupted, waving away his protest and motioning to the simple white box.

With another grin over his shoulder at the adorable woman who seemed more excited about his gifts than he was, David opened the box. Inside lay a black smoking jacket with gold detail. In scrawling script, the initials  _DR_  graced the chest.

He felt Erin move closer, felt her breath on his neck as she asked, "Would you like to try it on?"

If he had any doubts about how this night was going to end, they were certainly removed when he turned back around and looked into those captivating eyes, which made no effort to hide the absolute lust shining in them.

Erin Strauss was wooing him. It was novel, after all those years of chasing women, to actually be pursued by one, especially since she already knew that he was caught. He knew that this was also part of Erin's gift to him, because for so many years, she'd refused to let him be affectionate towards her, and she'd shut him out in so many small ways. Now, she was atoning for it, showing him that he wasn't the only one who'd held back those impulses.

He simply nodded, completely entranced by what he saw in those green eyes. Erin's eyes had always been beautiful, full of spark and humor and emotion, but the simple act of darkening her makeup made them seem to glow like coals, capturing him, commanding him,  _Look at me. Only me_.

Those burning orbs were now focused downwards as she turned her attention to the buttons of his shirt. But this was not the frenzied undressing that usually accompanied their nights together—she moved slowly, softly, secure in the knowledge that this time, there was a promise of future experiences. There was no need to rush, to try and devour the other person whole, to try and get enough to tide them over until the next meeting, which may be years from now, if ever. For once in their history together, they had time. It was a beautiful, wondrous new luxury, and Erin was going to make sure that they both enjoyed it to the fullest.

"Cuffs, please," she murmured, and he dutifully held out his wrists, smiling at how adorable she looked as she cocked her head to the side to see the small buttons. She pushed back the fabric and set her lips onto the pulse point on his wrist, her eyes flickering back to his as she left a slow, languorous kiss on the smooth skin. The reaction she saw in those dark hooded eyes set a wave of heat rippling through her body.

She leaned forward again, her mouth connecting to his neck, tasting the warmth of his flesh as her hands quickly unfastened his belt, unzipping his pants and letting them rest on his hips as she pulled the tails of his shirt loose. She pulled the gun and holster off his belt, carefully setting it on the table. Then she reached up, placing a hand on each shoulder as she slowly pushed the shirt off his frame, taking the time to feel the skin and muscles beneath her fingers, leaning in closer so that her chest was flush against his. Her hands moved back up his arms, over his chest, down his sides, her head rolling against his shoulder as she simply enjoyed the solidness of his chest.

"I've missed you," she said quietly, and he understood the depth behind those words—because, like Erin, every time their bodies reconnected, he always felt the strange sensation of  _home_. Of course, tonight the feeling was intensified by the knowledge that perhaps this time, he would be home to stay.

She stepped around him, leaning over to grab the smoking jacket from its box. He shifted, helping her pull the jacket over his arms and shoulders. She took a step back to admire the black silk, which only enhanced his dark features.

Though the heated look in her eyes said it all, David couldn't resist asking, "So, does the lady approve?"

"Well," she stepped forward again, pretending to be uncertain. "I can't get the full effect. I'm going to need to take off your pants, to be sure."

He simply grinned in response as she knelt down, tapping his left ankle, which he lifted so that she could pull off his shoe and sock before repeating the action with his right foot. But instead of rising to her feet again, Erin sank forward on her knees, her hands traveling back up to David's hips, gently pulling his pants and boxers down.

His cock stiffened even more at the cool rush of air against his bare skin, at Erin's soldering eyes as she looked back up at him, silently assuring herself that this was what he wanted. The soft amazement in his eyes was enough to reassure her; she loved being able to inspire such tender expressions on the face that was usually set in a hardened mask, blocking the world from his thoughts and emotions. She felt a tremor in the pit of her stomach at the realization— _I do that to him. I pull his defenses down, he lets me see everything underneath. Just me. Only me._

Keeping her eyes locked on his, she gingerly held him with her right hand, her tongue coming out to massage the tip of his cock, slowly remembering the taste of him, which seemed so oddly familiar after so much time and distance. She saw the muscles in his throat tighten, and she felt another flush of heat—his smallest reaction was enough to charge her entire body with electricity, but right now, all she wanted was to give him exactly what he wanted.

She closed her lips around him, taking him in slowly, her hand covering the rest of the shaft. Her tongue and mouth caressed him, her eyes following every sensation, every nuance of his expression as her free hand slowly massaged its way up his thigh, across his pelvis, as far up his chest as she could reach. His hand clasped hers, threading their fingers together, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

The tightness in David's chest wasn't just from the tension that Erin's mouth was building inside of him—he felt a wave of emotion, something close to adoration, for the woman before him. Even now, as she sucked and pulled and licked him (in the middle of his dining room, no less), her other hand was caressing his, the pad of her thumb gently rubbing the inside of his palm, connecting him, grounding him to this moment with her. Her eyes had never left his face, those burning orbs filled with something softer than lust, yet no less intense in its depth.

His other hand went to her face, caressing the curve of her cheek as she continued. It was then that she closed her eyes, her hand breaking away from his as it traveled back down, gripping his hips with both hands as she braced herself for his release. She could feel his muscles tensing beneath her hands, could feel the involuntary jerk of his hips and she knew that he was almost there. His hands were now in her hair, his fingers curling through her locks with a sudden urgency as he felt the familiar rush of fire through his veins.

He came quickly and quietly (which always surprised Erin, because in every other aspect of his life, David Rossi was loud and gregarious, yet when they made love, he hardly made any noise at all—just another secret that she knew, another treasure to keep in her heart). She waited until he was still again before gingerly pulling back, hiding a grimace at the pain in her knees (she wasn't as young as she used to be, and the hardwood floor of the dining room reminded her of that). She gently kissed her way up his abdomen, caressing the muscles of his chest, running her hands over the dark silk of his smoking jacket, silently calming the blood pounding in his veins.

David leaned against the table, watching his lover as she wordlessly traveled into the kitchen. He heard the sink running, heard the cabinets open as she searched for a glass, then she reappeared, water in hand, taking a sip as she casually motioned to his smoking jacket, "I think it suits you quite nicely."

If David wasn't already in love with this woman, that would have sealed the deal—she was standing there, so nonchalant, though her face was flushed and her hair was messy and the smell of sex still hung in the air. She was a dame and half, a powerhouse, a force of nature, and he couldn't help but grin at the realization that finally, he would get to experience every nuance of Erin Strauss in living, breathing color. He imagined that what he felt now was something akin to the thrill that tornado chasers felt whenever they approached a big twister ( _it may blow us all away, it may tear us all to Kingdom Come, but what an awesome sight it will be_ ).

She studied the smile on his face, thinking she probably knew the motives behind it, but still she gently asked, "What?"

"I'm just thinking of the future," he answered simply, and she grinned in response, tucking a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. That was another thing he loved about her—how quickly she could change from vixen to love-struck schoolgirl and back again, how easily she flowed between emotions (though only when she was with him, only when it was just them). He pushed off the edge of the table, wrapping the smoking jacket's sash around him as he entered the kitchen. "C'mon, bella, let's get some dinner."

She simply followed him, an amused smile on her lips as she leaned against the counter, watching her dark-haired love as he moved easily around the large kitchen. Aside from the attire, he looked like he could be hosting a cooking show—each item was set out in an ordered row, cookware and dishes were lined up as well.

He turned on the stove burner, lightly coating the inside of a small pan with olive oil as he gestured to the cutting board, "Everyone works in this kitchen, bella."

She stepped forward hesitantly, "What do you want me to do?"

"Slice and dice the tomatoes. Nice, small pieces."

She gave a slight shrug—it was simple enough—as she picked up the tomatoes which had been placed on the counter, washing them before taking a knife from woodblock next to the stove. David moved behind her, retrieving more ingredients from the refrigerator, taking a moment to appreciate what her stilettos did for the lines in her calf muscles.

"What are we making?" Erin asked, glancing over the items that were already on the counter.

"Crostini Rossi," came the reply, and she simply grinned ( _of course he's renamed the dish after himself_ ). She felt him shift behind her, brushing closer to her than necessary in this sprawling kitchen. "Prep the tomatoes like you would for bruschetta."

She nodded, popping a small piece of tomato in her mouth, the tartness mingling with the aftertaste of him, and she felt a simple happiness bubbling inside her chest at the domesticity of the moment. It was comforting, being able to engage in something so basic as cooking a meal together. It made this thing between them real, solid, true, something deeper than it had been.

Of course, when David Rossi was involved, even the most domestic of chores became foreplay.

Once he'd placed the slices of baguette in the pan, he had a few free moments to further appreciate Erin's outfit, pretending to trace the outlines of the large buttons across her chest as his fingers sneaked further outward, towards the nipples that were already hardening beneath his fingers.

"The crostini's gonna burn," Erin scolded him, only gently, because, really, she couldn't give a damn about toast when his fingers pressed into her flesh with such achingly delicious precision.

"Are you questioning my cooking skills?" He asked, giving her right nipple a sharp tweak, which earned him a slight gasp.

"Never," she returned playfully, her breasts tightening at the loss of his weight and warmth as he moved back to the stove.

"Would you like me to drop you off at Quantico or at your house tomorrow morning?" He asked in a conversational tone, as if there was no doubt that Erin would not be leaving until the next day.

"My, my," she couldn't help but tease him, shooting him an amused look. "You're quite a presumptuous boy, aren't you, David Rossi?"

He merely returned her grin with a wicked one of his own, "You have no idea."

Those four words held such promise that Erin felt another flash of heat spread through her veins, reigniting the delicious fire that had begun the moment he'd stepped into the foyer. Of course, it didn't help that although David had already found some release, she was still a tingling, dripping bundle of nerves that had yet to be sated. He could be talking about the price of tea in China and her body would still be reacting to him as if he were reading the Kama Sutra aloud to her.

She ducked her head, trying to bring her lust-riddled brain back into the present as she returned to the original question, "Tomorrow's my day off, so you can take me home."

"How early will we have to leave to beat Anna and save you from the walk of shame?" He joked.

"Anna's with her father," Erin answered easily. "She alternates between me and Paul each week."

"I see." There was something in David's voice that informed Erin that he was pleased with this new knowledge, and was probably already figuring out how to work it to his advantage.  _Naughty, naughty boy_.

She waited a beat, taking a breath before adding, "She's already told the others about you. Or, at least what she knows about you. Now Jordan and Christopher are clamoring to meet you."

There was another pause as David contemplated her words, and Erin felt a brief wave of fear—had she pushed too quickly, too soon?

"And what about you?" He asked quietly, his gaze remaining focused on the slices of bread as he flipped them in the pan. "Are you ready for me to meet them?"

She suddenly understood his hesitancy—if she wanted him to meet her children, then she was openly admitting to their relationship, full-heartedly committing to  _something more_ , and he wanted to know that it was truly what she wanted (because that was their agreement, she would decide when and if, just like she had all the times before). Her heart swelled again for this sweet, sweet man and his gentle touches and soft questions, his tender martyrdom for her wants and needs and wishes.

"I am," she answered, slightly breathless as a sudden wave of emotions hit her. It was utterly, completely true—she wanted him to meet her children (his son), her brother, even her bitchy sister Carole, she wanted him by her side at holidays and family dinners, on road trips and quiet evenings at home, through every shape of love, in every shade of her life. She wanted him in a way that made her lungs cling to her ribcage, caught with sticky need and unnamable emotion, in a way that made her skin burn and her heart flutter, as her mind prayed:  _Don't ever let me leave this web you've caught me in, keep me here, love me here, sew me to your side and carry me with you always, because I'll be good and quiet and loving and whatever you want, whatever you need, just never let me go_.

She saw the corner of his mouth curl into a smile, saw his shoulders relax (she realized with another pang of love that he'd actually been holding his breath as he awaited her response) as he continued with his culinary endeavors. Now it was her turn to move behind him, wrapping her arms around him as she gave him a reassuring squeeze.

"You do want to meet them, don't you?" She had to ask, even though his response had already answered the question.

"Of course," he replied easily, flipping the toast again, this time sprinkling some herbal mixture over the lightly golden slices. "After all, Jordan and I traveled the country together for months, and we've never actually met face-to-face."

She smiled at the quip, warmly remembering the times they'd spent together during her first pregnancy—he'd even gotten to witness the strange sight of the babe's foot visibly protruding from her mother's side as she slowly began turning, preparing for her own arrival. David had informed Erin that she looked like a victim in the next  _Alien_  film, and she'd merely shot him a dark look.

"She's read all of your books, you know," Erin commented, moving back to the cutting board.

"Really?"

"Really," Erin resumed her task, not even bothering to look up as she added. "She thinks you're a brilliant writer."

"Your daughter has good literary tastes."

"I thought you'd say that."

Erin's phone buzzed from her purse, which was still in the dining room, and she clipped back into the other room, finding her phone and answering with an airy, "Erin Strauss."

Her face lit up when she recognized the voice on the other end of the line, "Ruthie! Ruthie, how are you, my darling?"

David looked up, smiling at her excitement—he'd forgotten that she'd adored Rutherford Golden, who was her SAC when she transferred from Philadelphia into the D.C. office. Ruthie was a progressive man who didn't share her previous supervisor Goodwin's views, who had allowed Erin the free reign she needed to truly do her best work, who shared her sharp wit, though his tongue was softened by compassion (something that the younger version of Erin Strauss hadn't quite mastered). It was under his tutelage that Erin had finally come into her own at the Bureau, and David realized sadly that Ruthie was probably one of the only former colleagues that Erin would classify as a friend.

He watched her slowly return to the kitchen, the sway of her hips more pronounced due to her impossibly high heels. She was smiling softly, her gaze unfocused as she listened to Ruthie, cradling her cell phone between her shoulder and her ear as she returned to the cutting board, absentmindedly taking another piece of tomato and popping it in her mouth.

"I know, and I'm so sorry that I had to miss it," she apologized, giving David a knowing grin as she added, "But there was a personal matter that couldn't wait."

Ruthie spoke again, and she nodded, "I'd love that."

Her gaze drifted out to the large windows at the opposite side of the kitchen as she listened to her friend.

"Well, I actually have a meeting first thing tomorrow morning, so how about lunch instead?" She smiled at his response, "Perfect. See you then, Ruthie."

She set her phone on the kitchen counter, grabbing another tomato and resuming her bruschetta responsibilities.

"I thought you were off tomorrow," David commented.

She gave a small smirk, "I am. But it just so happens that I plan on having a very productive and enjoyable conference with one of my agents tomorrow morning."

He bit back a grin as he moved behind her again, his lips touching her ear as he murmured, "You are quite a presumptuous girl, aren't you, Erin Strauss?"

She arched her back, her bottom pressing against his groin as she replied with a naughty grin, "You have no idea."

He chuckled at the response, his hands snaking around to fondle her breasts as he nibbled her ear, which made her giggle and squirm. However her ticklishness disappeared whenever his lips continued downward, following the curve of her hairline, back to the soft skin at the nape of her neck. Erin's head rolled forward, allowing him access, as she braced her hands on the countertop, closing her eyes and taking an unsteady breath as a shiver raced down her spine. David's mouth stopped its ministrations and Erin gave a slight sigh at the loss.

"Erin?"

"Mmm?"

"Those tomatoes aren't going to dice themselves." The teasing in his tone was unmistakable.

"David Rossi, you are a bastard, you know that?"

He simply laughed at his lover's feigned anger, his arms firmly wrapped around her waist as he watched her hands resume their task. He liked the feel of her body moving against him, even in such a menial chore, the steady rhythmic movement of her shoulders against his chest as she sliced and diced, the pulse of the knife on the cutting board creating a staccato beat. Her hips occasionally swayed as she reached for another tomato, transferring the diced pieces into the glass bowl beside the cutting board, as if her body was keeping time to some unheard melody—a habit which he was sure that she didn't recognize (just like she didn't realize that she rolled forward on the balls of her feet whenever she stood in front of the mirror applying makeup), probably something she developed to help her move through the tedious motions of making dinner for her family for countless years.

"What are you smiling at?" She asked, still pretending to be miffed. He didn't ask how she knew that he was smiling, when her eyes were focused on the tomatoes.

"You," he answered simply.

"Me and how you love to torture me so?" She drawled, taking a moment to shoot him an arched look over her shoulder.

"Oh, now, bella," he cooed, his hands moving back around, pressing into the bundle of nerves at the base of her spine, massaging them in slow, luxurious circles. "Surely this isn't torture."

He felt the involuntary arch of her back at the first pressure, felt her muscles slowly melt back into the blissful sensation of his fingers as his mouth returned to her neck.

"It is," she argued, almost too distracted by his touch to even breathe, much less speak (almost).

"Then do you want me to stop?" He asked in a knowing tone.

"No," she admitted, biting her lip as his hands traveled further down, tracing the outline of her hips, moving underneath her skirt. Her body sang with delight as his hands touched her bare skin for the first time all day, a sure sign that deliverance was not far away.

David halted his attentions to her neck as his hands realized that although Erin's calves where cased in nylon, her thighs were bare, which meant...he gave another wicked grin as his fingers found the garter straps.

"You used to have a thing for pinups," she supplied, and he hummed in affirmation.

"Still do." He smiled at the thought that she'd remembered that detail after all these years. Then he realized that tonight was the first time that they'd actually  _planned_  to spend the night together, the first time that she'd dressed just for him. His heart raced at the thought of how many more exotic delights lay ahead, now that this thing between them was changing, growing from frenzied hands to slow lovers.

"Done," she announced quietly, interrupting his thoughts. She leaned forward, reaching for the spice rack as David's hand splayed across her ass, relishing the feel of her flesh moving and rippling beneath his fingers. His hand shifted, easily slipping to the warm space between her thighs, smiling at the faint hitch he heard in her breathing as she settled into his hand. To her credit, this time she kept her attention on the basil, which she sprinkled over the diced tomatoes. He could feel the moisture seeping through the silky fabric, and he felt a slight pang at the fact that he'd neglected her obvious needs, after she'd so wonderfully taken care of his own. She'd been so patient, never asking, only offering whatever he wanted, simply because it was (almost) his birthday and because she wanted to make him happy.

Well, it was time to repay the favor. Despite the fabric, David's fingers pressed harder, finding the pulsing bud at her apex. Erin gave a slight hiss, rolling forward on the balls of her feet involuntarily. He began making slow, deep circles, and Erin's head dipped forward again, a hum rumbling in her chest as the first few pressures eased some of the heat and need that had been clamoring inside her for what seemed like an eternity. But relief was temporary, because soon, she felt the familiar tightening, the coiling deep in the caverns of her hips, the feeling of fire radiating from her core as David's fingers continued their steady movements.

He could feel the first light tremors in her thighs, could feel her body tensing as it prepared to topple over the edge—she was going to come undone quite beautifully, and he didn't want to miss a single second of it. He pulled away, turning her to face him, his own body filling with delicious anticipation at the sight of her lust-hazed eyes and flushed face. His hand quickly disappeared beneath her skirt again, this time pushing aside the thin material that separated her bare skin from his fingers. His fingertips feathered around her opening and she widened her stance in response.

"Please," she breathed, bracing herself against the countertop, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge, trying not to melt to the floor.

David moved closer, pressing his left knee against her right, his free hand pressing against the small of her back, keeping her steady as he slowly slipped two fingers inside her hot, silky core. He groaned at how absolutely beautiful she felt as his thumb moved to her clit, her walls clenching against his fingers when he applied pressure. He continued the movements of his hand and her head rolled forward again, her forehead resting against his as she simply focused on his touch, her hips finding sync with the rhythm of his hand. Their mouths were so close, open, sharing the same breath, several loose strands of her hair falling into his eyes as the tips of their noses brushed gently.

She was close; he could feel the rigidness of her body, could feel her holding her breath as she held on to the moment-before-the-fall feeling.

"Erin," he whispered, not knowing what else there was to say, or even what he wanted to say, but it didn't matter, because at the simple sound of her name on his lips, she tumbled into her orgasm, the moan building in her throat as she shuddered around his fingers. He added at third digit, twisting them just-so, and her low moan became a full cry as she sank deeper into his hand, her knees quivering as her arms braced against the counter, keeping her upright.

The moment seemed frozen in time as he simply breathed, waiting for her spasms to quieten, for her to regain composure as she slowly spiraled back down to earth. He reached behind her, pushing aside their cooking endeavors so that he could gently pull her hips up, sitting her on the countertop. She still leaned forward, her face still touching his as her arms wrapped around his neck, keeping him with her in the moment for just a little longer.

"I think I'll have to cook with you more often," he said softly, and this earned him a shaky, breathless laugh from the blonde, who pulled him into a languorous kiss, her fingers gently running through his hair. She was still trying to let her flesh re-gather itself, let her melted bones slowly reform and solidify so that she could stand on her own two feet again. He seemed to understand, because he simply stood there, returning her small kisses and gentle caresses.

"Now," she sat back, an amused grin dancing at the corners of her mouth. "Shall we finish dinner?"


	14. Kiss the Flame

_"My body will be one with you, my heart will be caught in the whirls of your frenzy, and the burning heat that was my life will flash up and mingle itself in your flame."_

_~Rabindranath Tagore._

* * *

**May 2013. Rural Virginia.**

"You're overdressed." David succinctly informed her as he handed her the plate of Crostini Rossi, now beautifully topped with tomatoes and cheese and herbs.

"Am I?" Erin's eyes were wide with feigned concern.

He motioned to his own attire, which was the simple smoking jacket. "As you can see, dinner dress is casual at Casa di Rossi."

With a grin, she set down the plates, moving to unfasten the buttons of her dress, but he quickly stopped her, his tone becoming husky as he spoke, "Allow me."

She nodded, letting her hands fall to her sides as David's capable hands made quick work of the row of buttons, pulling back one side of the dress to find the smaller button on the inside, which held the dress together. This gesture revealed one breast, encased in a lovely black-lace-over-emerald cup.

"This is, by far, my favorite present to unwrap," he admitted, and she gave a knowing smirk in response. That was one of the many things she loved about this man—it didn't seem to matter to him that her body was not the firm, toned thing it had been 20 years ago, because he never ceased to be in absolute awe and adoration of her form, regardless of how it changed and shifted over time. With David, she always felt effortlessly sexy, because simply being herself was enough to turn him on. There was something freeing in that realization, and Erin embraced it whole-heartedly.

The inside button was undone and David got to unwrap the other half of her body, his breath stopping as he took in the full effect of Erin's final surprise for him. She'd taken the pinup idea to heart—her garter straps had little emerald bows on the front, which led up to a black lace garter belt, over high-waisted black bottoms that only defined the curve of her hips and the tuck of her waist, and her breasts were beautifully (and barely) contained in an emerald and black lace balconette bra, the colors accentuating her creamy skin. He didn't think it possible, but her eyes seemed even more electric, their green hue further intensified by the emerald accents.

She bit her lip, feeling a certain delight at his reaction. He stepped forward again, his hands pulling her hips into his as her arms automatically wrapped around his neck, her mouth finding his like a heat-seeking missile. She didn't have to ask how he felt about her outfit—she could feel his approval pressing against her hip, to which her core responded by filling with another rush of wet heat.

Normally, this would be the point where things spun out of control, and they would probably end up on the kitchen floor. But now, they had time, and they could enjoy the anticipation just a little bit longer. Erin pulled back, trying her best to look reprimanding as she said, "Dinner first."

She stepped back, delicately avoiding her dress, which was crumpled on the floor. With a soldering look over her shoulder, she leaned over to pick up the article of clothing, giving David a tantalizing view of her ass.

"For someone who's such a neat-freak, you really do leave a lot of clothes lying around," she chided playfully, walking back into the dining room and draping the dress over the back of a chair. She returned to the kitchen to help him with the plates, and David couldn't resist the urge to lean over and give her garter strap a quick snap. Erin gave a slight yip of surprise, her face flushing again as she tried to look stern and disapproving (but only because she knew that part of him enjoying taunting her, like a little boy teasing his first grade-school crush). Then she turned on her heel and sashayed back into the dining room, leaving an absolutely delicious vision in her wake.

David's skin felt like it was two sizes too small and his blood was singing with the joy of things to come. Like Erin, he was learning what a refreshingly wonderful luxury time was, and he silently agreed with her verdict that food should come first. Tonight, she was staying all night—not to leave in the early morning, not to go away and shut him out, not to pretend that their touches and cries and caresses had meant nothing—and they were both going to need all of their strength.

David grinned as he picked up the glasses (water for them both, since Erin couldn't have wine and he couldn't be so cruel as to drink in front of her). This was definitely the best birthday ever.

* * *

Erin's light eyes watched David's dark ones, which were focused on her breasts. All through dinner, he'd hardly been able to tear his gaze away from them. Not that she blamed him—they were high and on display, almost pouring out of their cups, so uninhibited that they trembled with every movement that she made.

He was at the head of the table, she was seated adjacent to him—halfway through dinner, she'd slipped her foot out of her heel and now her right leg was splayed over his lap, her stockinged toes softly and slowly rubbing his inner right thigh in a way that was more comforting than sexual (because more than anything, she wanted to keep him grounded, keep him here, keep him away from thoughts of tomorrow and the sadness it would bring). His left hand was massaging her calf muscle with the same easy absentmindedness, as if they'd been this loving and affectionate all of their lives.

Still, her boobs were stealing the show, and she couldn't resist the amused smirk that danced across her mouth as she leaned forward (enhancing their effect) as she quietly asked, "Have you found something more… _appealing_  to your taste buds, my love?"

He actually blushed when he realized that he'd been staring, and Erin found it adorable.

"I'm not used to seeing this much of you," he admitted. "Unless we're actually having sex."

She gave a sad smile as she realized the truth behind his words. But she leaned forward again, her hand finding his under the table, "I know. And I promise, we'll remedy that."

"That's one promise I'll definitely be holding you to," his grin deepened as he wagged his eyebrows mischievously, which earned him a short laugh from his dining companion.

"Of that I have no doubt, Mr. Rossi."

* * *

"Ladies first," David motioned grandly up the staircase, and Erin gave him a knowing grin. She stopped, steadying herself on the banister as she pulled off her heels—there was no way in hell she was taking on a flight of stairs in those things—handing them to David, who was already carrying his gun and the clothes they'd scattered all over the dining room (because as Erin had correctly stated before, David Rossi was a bit of a neat freak, and everything had a proper place).

"If you're going to stare at my ass the whole way up, you might as well make yourself useful." She said dryly, as she began to mount the stairs.

He reached forward, popping her garter strap again.

"David!"

"That was for the sass, ma'am."

"You've never complained about my sass before," she purred, putting more sway into her hips as she continued upwards.

"I'm definitely not complaining now," he returned warmly, his grin deepening as he heard her chuckle. She reached the landing, looking around uncertainly. He placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her towards the master bedroom.

Erin bit back a wave of trepidation as they crossed the threshold—all the times before, it had been a hurried, unplanned, unthinking affair, taking place in the detached and impersonal settings of various hotels, places without memories or sense of belonging. For the first time, they were moving slowly, with thought and consideration, in David's home, among his possessions and his memories. They weren't strangers in the night. They were lovers.

David sensed her hesitancy, but he kept moving, letting her stand by the door as he placed his gun in the safe, their shoes in the closet, his clothes in the bathroom hamper, her dress on a hanger. She slowly moved into the room, anxiously rubbing the finger that no longer held a wedding ring.

He stopped, taking a moment to make eye contact as he gently reminded her, "It isn't any different than before, bella."

"But it is," she countered softly, her eyes filled with fear. In some ways, she was right. But he knew that agreeing with her would only heighten her uncertainty, so he refrained.

He quietly removed his watch and his ring, setting them in their appropriate places in the wooden box on his dresser. She watched with careful eyes, silently exploring this new world that he'd allowed her to enter—these were the little moments that she'd never gotten to witness before, the little stones that would build the great wall of Life Together, the knowing of simple habits that created the gentle intimacy which they'd denied themselves for so long.

"It isn't," he reassured her, moving towards her again, pulling her close, relishing the feel of her soft body molding to his. "See. Does this feel any different than before?"

She didn't answer, but she took a deep breath, as if she were weighing the question in her mind. He reached up, easily finding the pins in her hair and gently pulling them out one by one, watching in soft wonder as her curls slowly began to fall around her face and shoulders, tempering the sharp lines of her shoulders and collarbone. He set them back on the dresser (and she smiled at the thought that he couldn't just let them fall where they may) before turning back to her. He cupped her uncertain face with his hands and kissed her forehead (now that her heels were off, she was shorter than he was again, and the familiarity of these levels was comforting), his mouth traveling down to meet hers sweetly and tenderly.

"Does this feel any different than before?" He repeated his query.

"No," she admitted softly, her eyes flickering up to meet his again as she realized what he was doing. His hands moved downward, pushing down the straps of her bra, savoring the smoothness of her skin.

"Does this?"

"No," she breathed, closing her eyes as she leaned into his touch, seeking out his warmth. His mouth went to her neck as his hands traveled down to her breasts, massaging them as he nipped her flesh with his teeth, following each mark with a kiss.

"And this?" He asked between kisses, between tastes of her skin.

She simply hummed happily in response as the slow burn that had been tapered by fear suddenly reignited beneath her skin, her head rolling forward as she kissed the dark head that was now at her breasts, her fingers nesting in his salt-and-pepper locks.

His hands were on her hips, guiding her back towards the bed, and she gladly followed his lead, their bodies breaking contact as she sat on the edge, looking up at him expectantly.

In the stillness, the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed midnight.

Erin's face lit up in a devilish grin as she repeated her first words to him, "Happy birthday, David."

His name on her lips held their entire history—the good, the bad, the ugly, the every-little-thing-in-between—and he felt another rush of excitement at the realization that finally (finally!), they were acknowledging all the years and moments between them. His grin mirrored her own as he leaned forward, planting his hands on either side of her hips as his mouth captured hers in a quick kiss, "You sure know how to throw a helluva surprise party, mia cara."

Her fingers gently traced the line of his jaw, the adoration in her eyes unmistakable as her lips returned to his. The tender kiss turned into something deeper as their tongues found each other again, and her hands were firmly cupping his face as she pulled him forward. However, he stopped himself from tumbling onto the bed, pulling back with a grin as he stood up again. Her right hand stayed on his chest, planted warmly on the patch of skin between the v of his smoking jacket as she looked up, simply waiting for his next move.

He pulled her to her feet again, sitting on the edge of the bed as her positioned her between his knees. He leaned forward, his cheek resting on the side of her hip as he reached around to unfasten the garter clasp at the back of her right leg. Her hand automatically returned to his hair, caressing his head as he quietly moved around her standing body. He turned his attention to the clasp at the back of her left leg, smiling as he stated, "You should wear these to work."

"Why? So you can sneak up on me and pop the straps when I'm not looking?" Her tone was filled with amusement.

"I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing," he replied, though his wicked grin belied his words.

He softly kissed the strip of skin showing between her high-waisted bottoms and her balconette bra before returning to his task, unclasping the front snaps of her garter with such ease that Erin couldn't help but comment, "I think you've had some practice with these sorts of things."

"Maybe I've just been thinking about how to get you out of them all night," he returned easily, grinning as Erin let out a full laugh.

"Good recovery," she complimented, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "Very smooth."

The garter belt was tossed into a nearby chair. He took a moment to let his hands follow the swell of her hips before removing her bottoms, laying soft kisses on each hip bone. She stepped out of the clothing easily, moving aside so that he could send them flying to meet their belted companion. Then she reached down, untying the sash of his robe, pushing it off his body as her mouth connected to his shoulder, humming at the familiar warmth of his skin beneath her lips. It had been almost a year since the last time they'd been together, and yet, in comparison, it wasn't that long—after all, they usually went whole decades between touches—but gods, she never remembered missing him as intensely as she did right now. Even now, with his flesh beneath her mouth, with the heat of his body radiating against her skin, with the heady mixture of his cologne and her perfume and the dark scent of sex cloying to her nostrils, even with the comforting pressure of his hands on her body, she missed him. Each moment was too much and not enough, the hunger for every ounce of him clawed inside of her, crying for more, dying for more, more,  _more_ , with the same insistence that her lungs demanded oxygen.

Gently pushing him back onto the mattress, she crawled onto the bed beside him, her face hovering over his as she kissed him again. Gravity took control and her breasts were falling out of their flimsy cage and David was sliding beneath her, moving further down so that his mouth could connect to the dusky rose half-moon that was peeking from the edge of the black lace. He felt her arching into him, silently begging for more, and he gratefully obliged, using his teeth to jerk down the fabric, unleashing the wave of flesh from its lace dam. She gave a slight gasp at the sudden pull, biting back a grin at the feeling of his warm breath on her skin again. That wonderful, magical pair of lips closed over a taunt nipple and she felt the tension in her body ratchet up another notch. But in her current position, her arms were supporting her, which meant her hands weren't free to return his caresses, and that simply wouldn't do.

She pulled away, and David gave a small growl of displeasure, though he smiled when she pulled him into sitting position, her arms and legs wrapping around him and bringing him back to her again. Their mouths rejoined and he felt her breath softly exhale in relief as her hands aimlessly wandered the continent of his skin, content just to feel him, any part of him.

His hands snaked around her back, unclasping the bra, slowly pulling it down, watching as her breasts came back down to their natural level. Noting his gaze, Erin purred, "Would you like me to wear this to work, too?"

"Heavens, no," he grinned devilishly. "With the way you power-walk and the complete lack of control this thing has, you'd give yourself a black eye."

She threw her head back and laughed that deep, true laugh that he loved so much, and he took advantage of that fact that her throat was so easily accessible. His lips latched on to her skin as she hummed, "You are horrible."

Somehow, Erin Strauss made even a reprimand sound like a come-on.

He tossed aside the bra, turning back to her with another winsome smile, and she felt her heart skip a beat ( _after all that we've done, all that we've been through, that's all it takes—a simple smile and I am undone_ ).

A smile might have been all it took to unravel the formidable Erin Strauss, but as usual, the equally persuasive David Rossi was going to surpass that mark by a long shot. By now, the only clothing left between either of them was Erin's stockings, and David decided that he was going to enjoy this last measure of his birthday present to the fullest. Those lovely legs were already wrapped around him, so he simply placed his hand under her left knee, pulling it closer to his mouth, which landed on her upper thigh, just above the top of her stocking. Erin leaned back on her elbows, unwrapping her legs to allow her lover to move more freely, her eyes watching his face with breathless anticipation. He gently rolled the fabric down another inch, placing another kiss on the newly-revealed skin, his hands traveling the length of her leg and caressing her calf.

He continued, each kiss sending a ripple of heat through her body. All too soon, the stocking was removed, flying to meet the rest of the outfit in the chair across the room. He turned his attention to her right leg, repeating the exercise, and her poor left leg (poor thing, to be so sweetly loved and then so cruelly abandoned, so cold from the lack of his touch) found itself instinctively wrapping around his body, so desperately needing just to touch his skin as her hands lost themselves in his dark locks again.

He sat up again, tossing the final piece of clothing and turning back to the woman now splayed across his bed, with her flushed skin and her glowing eyes and her smile that left no doubt that she truly adored him.

"It does feel different," she stated quietly, answering the question he'd asked earlier. "It feels happier than all the times before."

"That's because we are happier, aren't we?" His voice was equally low, equally soft.

Her smile was bright enough to light up an entire city. "Yes, we are."

He moved back to her, taking a moment to kiss the tip of her nose before slowly entering her, feeling her walls contract around him as she gave a light sigh of relief. Her legs wrapped around him as they found their familiar rhythm, her hands moved by their own volition, caressing his face, tracing the taunt line of his shoulders. David's head dipped forward, and Erin's rose to meet it, their mouths reconnecting as she let her tongue say all the things that her lips had never been good at saying  _(I love you, I need you, I want you...you, you, you, always and only you_ ).

The thrust of his hips became quicker, and Erin knew he wasn't far from the edge. The tension that had been pooling between her own hips was heavier now, but she still felt too far away from the delicious tingling that always signaled the beginning of her own end. Her hands returned to his face as she softly moaned, "David..."

"I'm not gonna leave you, bella," he assured her, shifting position slightly so that he could use one hand to rub the pulsing bundle of nerves at her apex. The simple pressure on her clit made Erin jump slightly, her body immediately responding to the stimulation as fire rushed through her veins and the air left her lungs.

_Oh, yes, there is a reason your touch can ignite my body, a reason I crave you, there is a reason, there is, there is..._ even the voice inside Erin's head devolved into incoherent babble as another tremor rippled through her body, a herald of the greater shockwave to come. David was trying to hold back, trying to wait for her and she felt another rush of love for this concern, for his tenderness, for all the little ways that he put her before himself, which only intensified the heat radiating from every pore of her being.

"Let go," she urged him, and even those two words seemed to be a challenge (they required breath and coherent thought and control and all the things she didn't have right now). He ground into her even harder, giving a slight gasp at his release, and she felt her own orgasm crashing down around her.

He shifted, but her legs wrapped around him again, her arms pulling his body back to her chest.

"Stay," she whispered, her breath still ragged and uneven. "Stay like this, just a little bit longer."

He obeyed, slowly sinking his body onto hers, trying keep as much weight off her as possible, and she gave a light chuckle at his tenderness, simply pulling him closer and silently assuring him that he wasn't going to crush her.

The moment and the golden headiness couldn't last forever, Erin knew that. But as she lay there, firmly tethered to earth by the solid weight of her lover, her hands lazily tracing incoherent patterns on his back, she felt there was no harm in relishing the moment for as long as she could.

* * *

David was not in bed when she awoke the next morning. She vaguely remembered him leaving soft kisses on her skin earlier (ten minutes ago, two hours ago?), and she thought he might have actually said something to her, but she'd been too groggy to really comprehend his words.

Erin stretched her muscles, giving a small smile at the glimmering feeling that still seeped through her body, making her feel happy and relaxed. She looked over at the chair in the corner of the room, which still held their clothes from the night before—they looked good together, his silk smoking jacket and her lacy lingerie, they complimented each other, crumpled together like some burlesque still-life painting. They  _belonged_.

She shook her head with a wry smile— _Erin Strauss, waxing poetic over a pair of garters. This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper._

She sat up, giving a slight frown as she realized that the bag she'd packed (because of course, she'd been prepared for this) was still downstairs in the foyer. She moved to the window—one glance informed her that David's security detail was still there, and she really didn't fancy traipsing through his house without any clothes on. David's house had so many huge, open windows (something she didn't think about last night, she realized with a sudden flush), and she knew that with her luck, the agents outside would recognize her and have some very interesting tales to take to work tomorrow.

With a sigh, she moved back to the closet. There was no way she was putting that dress back on, not this early in the morning. She shifted back to his dresser, opening drawers until she found something suitable—a worn t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. The clothes reminded her of him, with their scent and their softness, and she smiled softly as she padded to the landing and down the stairs.

He was in the kitchen, and once again, there were ordered rows of ingredients and cooking utensils. She took a moment to quietly observe him, watching him move around the room with the easy grace that always reminded her of a jungle cat.

He stopped when he saw her, smiling at the sight of his clothes on her frame. "Morning, bella."

She returned his smile before motioning around the kitchen, "I thought you didn't eat breakfast."

"I don't," he replied, walking over to kiss the tip of her nose. "But Harter and Smith do."

She knew that those were the names of the agents sitting outside in the black suburban, and she couldn't help but arch her brow, "So, after all that fuss over having a security detail, you actually get up every morning and cook them breakfast?"

She was smirking at him now, teasing him, but she was wearing his clothes and he could still smell his cologne in her hair (because she'd spent the night with her head on his chest, happily sewn to his side), and really, David couldn't even pretend to be upset.

"I do," he admitted lightly, pulling her close. "It's my way of thanking them—it's the least I can do."

"You're very sweet," she cooed, and she meant it. She rolled forward on the balls of her feet, her mouth melding to his with a sleepy gentleness. Then she pulled away, moving past him, "I left my bag in the hall."

"You brought a bag?"

"I did."

He gave a low chuckle as he moved back to the stove. Really, it didn't surprise him (Erin always was a planner), but it was still a sweetly-strange notion, knowing that she'd actually meant to end up in his arms last night, that it had been much more of a conscious choice than all the times before.

She came back into the kitchen, setting her bag down as she wrapped her arms around him, holding him from behind.

"I'm going to take a shower," she announced, and she felt the lightest wave of tension ripple through his body. She understood its origin—that was always the turning point, all the times before, because once she got out of the shower, they would have the talk and they would start the awkward untangling of their emotions and affections, the slow distancing from one another, the slightly painful process of forgetting all the things that couldn't ever really be forgotten (that shouldn't, that wouldn't, not really, not ever). His reaction actually caused a pang in her chest, and she felt the need to offer some kind of reassurance that things had truly changed.

"Do you remember why I told Ruthie that I couldn't meet him for breakfast?" She asked softly.

"I do," his voice suddenly filled with a knowing warmth.

"Conference starts in ten minutes," she whispered, taking a moment to lightly graze her teeth on the curve of his shoulder blade, just enough to be felt through the fabric of his t-shirt. "With or without you, Agent Rossi."

She gave his ass a quick squeeze before scooping up her bag again, throwing one last look over her shoulder as she left the kitchen. David felt the familiar stirring deep within and he was fairly certain that breakfast was going to be ready in record time.

* * *

_Oh, how quickly things devolve_ , Erin mused. She was leaning forward, bracing her hands against the foggy bathroom mirror as her legs were splayed as widely as possible, allowing David better access. In the hazy reflection, she could see his form moving behind her, could feel him pushing inside of her, could feel the weight of his hands on her hips, could hear the sound of their still-wet bodies connecting, echoing through the tile bathroom with their heavy breaths. She transferred the weight to her right hand, allowing her left hand to swipe at the mirror's surface, creating a clear space where she could actually see his face. He noticed the action, looking up to meet her gaze through the mirror. He gave a knowing grin and she felt another thrill pass through her entire body.

This orgasm wasn't one of fire and blood and crashing waves—it was a soft, tumbling thing, quick and surprising, gently rolling through her body with a sweetness that was both novel and welcome. David came soon after, and she watched the emotions playing across the face she loved so much, as if seeing it for the first time. He leaned forward, kissing the ridge of her spine, following it back up to her neck as she leaned back, welcoming the feel of his chest on her back. Her hair was still pulled up in a messy bun atop her head, allowing him unfettered access to her neck, which he gladly took, his hands moving around to cup her breasts. Her own hands went up, returning to their favorite nesting place in his dark locks, lovingly caressing the head bent over her shoulder as she arched her back, silently offering her flesh to his mouth.

Erin glanced at the mirror, and her heart caught in her throat at the sight staring back at her. She'd always enjoyed sex, and sometimes she even felt sexy, but this...this burning vignette in front of her surpassed simple sexiness, with the dark hue of his skin melding into her lighter one, the flushed bodies, still dripping from the shower, the glowing eyes and the red mouths and the arms moving like flesh-colored snakes, twining and untwining around each other. This was so much more than that...this was  _erotic_.

David looked up, and apparently he saw the exact same image, because he stopped for a moment, his dark eyes taking in every detail before he simply said, "We look good together, bella."

She hummed in agreement, watching her mirror-reflection self lift a hand to that beautiful face again, caressing the curve in his jaw as she softly replied, "We do, my darling."

* * *

**Vienna, Virginia.**

David felt a slight wave of sadness as he pulled into Erin's driveway. Reality was officially kicking back in—he'd held her hand as he drove back into the city, the gentle pressure of her fingers wrapped around his had kept him in a little bubble of domestic happiness. It was funny, how monumental the little things were between them (the little intimacies that he'd taken for granted in other relationships, the mundane things that had seemed insignificant), simply because they were things which had been denied for so long. The simple pleasure of holding hands became holy communion, a kiss became breath itself, an affectionate pat or a soft smile became a victory over years of pretending nothing existed between them.

This brave new world was made even more beautiful, even more exhilarating by the fact that Erin seemed equally enthralled by these small gestures—they were like two small children, thrilled by the discovery of some new hiding place, some new treasure trove filled with promise and adventure, and the greatest excitement came simply from seeing the other person's joy and wonder at it all.

He heard her give a light sigh as he put the car in park, and he smiled at the knowledge that she wasn't ready to leave him, either.

"I miss you already," she said softly, pulling his hand to her mouth, tenderly kissing the top of his knuckles.

"Me, too, bella," he admitted, leaning across the center console. She met him halfway, their lips melding, their tongues reconnecting as their hands blindly reached forward, pulling them into each other. This, too, was something new—the tenderness behind their kisses, the way they seemed to heal, instead of ripping things apart (the way their embraces used to do, when it was less about caring and more about burning down the world around them), the things they let those soft embraces say, the things they let them mend.

She pulled back, her grey-green eyes searching his brown ones as she spoke, "You'll call me? If...if you want to, if you need anything?"

Her hesitancy was endearing, but it was the compassion in her voice that melted David's heart. "I will."

She smiled, giving a small, curt nod of approval.

"Tell Ruthie thanks again for showing up last night." He gave her hand one last squeeze, another silent thank-you for the sweet surprise she'd given him. She nodded again, her smile growing as she got out of the car. He got out as well, opening the trunk and grabbing her bag, which she took as she leaned forward for one last kiss.

"I love you. Be safe."

She turned and headed inside, completely oblivious to the fact that she was leaving a wonderstruck Rossi in her wake.

David stared after her, his pulse quickening at the sudden realization. She'd said it. Those three fateful words, just so easily and effortlessly that they came without thinking, which meant they must be true. The words that had echoed quietly in his own heart for so long now, the ones that he thought he'd never get to say, the ones that he thought he'd never hear from her (though he would always suspect that they were there, just below the surface of all her interactions with him). And yet, here they were, offered so easily, without hesitation or fear or regret.

Erin Strauss loved him.

He got back in the car, his heart swelling with the thought that those three little words had changed everything for him. He still had to go see Tommy Yates, and that would always be something he dreaded, the dark mark that turned his birthday into something sadder, but Erin had given him a gift that would ensure that each year would now have a bright spot amongst the macabre—this would forever be the day that she first said  _I love you_.

He gave a small chuckle as his car pulled out onto the street. Erin Strauss really did know how to give one hell of a birthday celebration.


	15. For Auld Lang Syne

_"Could we see when and where we are to meet again, we would be more tender when we bid our friends goodbye."_

_~Ouida._

* * *

**February 1989. Washington, D.C.**

"Erin! Erin, get over here!" Corrine Scott-Jones called out loudly, waving for the blonde to join them. "We've gotta capture this for posterity!"

Erin laughed at her colleague's animated antics—Corrine was normally pretty outgoing, but the amount of vodka that she'd consumed had only enhanced her gregarious nature. Setting down her beer, Erin moved over to the small group surrounding her soon-to-be-former SAC, Rutherford Golden.

Ruthie already had one arm around Corrine and the other around Todd Norfolk, another analyst with large glasses and a Cheshire cat grin. By sheer luck, Erin was standing next to David Rossi, who wasn't even assigned to this field office, but was here to celebrate Ruthie's retirement.

Erin hesitated, not sure how to close to get (after all, it had only been a month since...since they'd made the awful mistake in Philadelphia), but the older man quickly put her fears to rest, simply grabbing her by the waist and pulling her tight. It was the type of informal grasp that anyone would use when taking a photo with a friend, with a colleague, and she breathed a sigh of relief. David had told her, a month ago, that he really was alright with forgetting everything that had happened between them ( _a fling's a fling, kid, no need for hard feelings_ ), but she'd feared that he would change his mind and start treating her differently. Because that's what people did, isn't it? They promised that things wouldn't change and even as they were making that promise (which they knew was a lie, deep down), they were already changing.

Obviously David Rossi was one of those rare creatures who actually stood by his promises, because though she'd been mentally holding her breath ever since he walked in the room, he had acted as if nothing had happened at all—well, perhaps he'd actually been a bit nicer than usual, but not so much that anyone would notice or suspect something.

Now his arm was around her waist and her head was leaning on his shoulder, and they were both smiling happily at the camera, and no one would ever know or be able to tell that they were anything more than two work buddies enjoying a bittersweet day.

The picture was taken and Ruthie sat back down in his wheelchair—he was still a young man, but a near-fatal shoot-out with a drug lord six months earlier had left him with a shattered hip and now he couldn't stand for long periods of time or walk more than a few yards without needing a rest. Physical therapy was helping him regain mobility, but the doctors' prognosis had ensured that he would spend the rest of his days at the Bureau chained to a desk due to his bum hip, so Ruthie decided to cash in his chips and bid the Fibbies farewell.

He motioned for Erin to join him, patting the chair next to him, and she grabbed her beer before plopping down beside him with a warm smile.

"I'm gonna miss you, Ruthie," she admitted, and he knew that she meant it—if there was one thing he'd learned about Erin Strauss, it was that she hardly ever talked about her feelings, so when she did, she meant what she said.

"Me, too, Erin," he smiled softly at the younger woman, reaching over to gently pat her hand. He didn't promise to stay in-touch, or ask her to do the same, because it wasn't how the world worked—you said those things, and you meant them, but then life always got in the way. Erin Strauss was destined for big things, and he knew that she'd go far and above in the Bureau, and she wouldn't have time to check in on a man who was once just her SAC for a few months. Besides, if he asked her for such a favor, it might betray how he really felt about her, and what he felt was... _improper_. Improper because she was a subordinate, because she was married, because she was a decade younger, because she'd never intentionally created these feelings inside of him, and she'd certainly never encouraged them. Improper and impossible. What a winning combination.

Across the room, David Rossi was chatting with Todd Norfolk, but out of the corner of his eye, he watched Erin, silently gauging her mood and reactions. She'd actually paled a bit when he'd entered the room earlier, and he'd known that she was flashing back to the quiet conversation they'd had in a hotel room in Philadelphia just a few weeks ago. She'd feared that he wouldn't hold up his end of the bargain, and her lack of faith had been irritating, although he did feel a twinge of regret for the fact that he really hadn't given her much reason to trust him in the first place. Hell, he couldn't stand her most of the time (and the other times, he couldn't even begin to explain the almost chemically-induced sway she held over his desires, so he simply chalked it up to "just one of those things" and let it be), but he never wanted to make her feel afraid or uncertain, because he never wanted to make any woman feel that way (it reminded him too much of his mother, his sisters, and all the things he wanted to spare them from). Besides, the way things were going lately, it looked like they would be working together quite often over the next few years, and he really didn't want to muddy the waters any more than they already had. It had been a brief little thing—two nights over a span of three months, did that even really qualify as a fling?—two little blips, two little accidents brought on by too much alcohol and not enough human contact, by the nature of their jobs and the stress of their personalities. He'd meant what he'd said in Philadelphia; it really wasn't a big deal.

Now she seemed relaxed again, perhaps even more relaxed than he'd ever seen her before. Her comfort level seemed to be directly related to the fact that David was no longer near her, and that Rutherford Golden was. He'd never really seen the two interact, though he knew that they both respected and thought very highly of each other. They were talking quietly, their heads dipped forward, creating their own little space in this room crowded with people and noise. Erin was smiling, a soft, almost regretful smile (she'd never smiled at him like that, that's for damn certain), nodding in agreement with something Ruthie said. Then her smile blossomed into a laugh, and she leaned forward, her head dropping as her body shook with laughter, her hand lightly resting on Ruthie's arm for support. Ruthie glanced down at her hand whenever she touched him, his own expression softening.

That's when David knew that Rutherford Golden had a thing for the kitten.

* * *

**May 2013. Washington, D.C.**

Time had been good to Rutherford Golden. He'd retired from the Bureau over twenty-four years ago—after he'd realized that he would be resigned to desk duty for the rest of his career, he'd decided to go into the private sector, first as an author then as a consultant on a television show. Years of physical therapy had made his injury seem nonexistent; he only limped when he was tired or the weather was particularly bad, and sometimes he even thought that the bullet to his hip had been the best thing to happen to him—it had pushed him out of the FBI, it had given him a life full of travels and strange tales and exotic sights that he probably would never have seen chasing down bad guys in D.C. Despite the bad parts, his life had turned out well, and he enjoyed it.

He had the body of a swimmer, a broad chest and shoulders with slim hips, with short salt-and-pepper hair (more salt than pepper these days) and well-defined features that marked him as a man of contemplation—a thin, serious nose, a gentle mouth, and deep, expressive brown eyes that never seemed to miss a single detail.

Those deep, expressive brown eyes lit up at the sight of Erin, who gave a small wave as she wove her way through the tables toward him. He rose to his feet and they exchanged a quick hug before Erin sat down with an airy smile.

"I went ahead and ordered your favorite," he motioned to the glass of wine waiting by Erin's plate. "At least, I think it was your favorite, at one time. It's been a while."

"It has," she smiled, the tips of her well-manicured nails lightly tracing around the base of the stem. "And it's really a lovely gesture, Ruthie, but I can't."

"Oh?"

She bit her lip—she hadn't expected to have to reveal everything within the first two minutes—but went ahead anyways, "I'm…in recovery. 340 days sober."

"I had no idea," he sat up, feeling a wave of consternation at the blush in Erin's cheeks.

"Of course you didn't—there are people who work with me every day who still don't know about it, and you and I haven't seen each other in over a decade," she offered a forgiving smile, reaching across the table to lightly pat his hand. "Really. It's alright."

It was then that Ruthie realized that Erin Strauss was no longer wearing her wedding ring. Apparently a lot had happened in the last decade.

The waiter came by and Erin ordered an iced tea, quietly and kindly sending the wine back after they'd placed their lunch orders. While her attention was focused on their waiter, Ruthie took a moment to observe her. She seemed more solid, more balanced than the woman he'd last seen so many years ago—he knew that she was a section chief now, and she wore the authority well. She'd grown into her looks—when she was younger, she'd been so beautiful that she was almost painful to look at, with her flawless face and piercing eyes and sharp edges, but now she seemed softer, there were curves to taper the intensity, wrinkles to add depth and warmth. She didn't seem to take herself quite so seriously now, and her smile was genuine and easy (and something he hadn't seen very often during their time together). She also seemed to be  _glowing_.

The glowing woman turned her attention back to him, leaning forward in earnest curiosity as she asked, "So how have you been, Ruthie?"

"I've been well," he answered with a smile.

"You look great."

"I feel great," he admitted.

"Life on the Florida coast must suit you," she grinned, only slightly envious.

He nodded in agreement before asking, "And what about you? How've you been?"

"Well, I'm better," her smile softened. "There were a few tough years, but for the past few months, I feel like I've been moving into a better place. I feel…balanced again."

Ruthie took a moment to contemplate this new Erin—the one who spoke so quietly and philosophically, who seemed so much more open about her life, who smiled more freely, who seemed to absorb all the light in the room with her gentle joyfulness.

"I'm happy for you," he said, and he truly meant it.

She beamed again as she replied, "I'm happy for me, too."

Their salads arrived, and Erin waited for their waiter to leave before adding, "By the way, I wanted to tell you how grateful I am that you made the trip—David was so happy to see you. It really meant a lot to him."

"I have to admit," Ruthie turned his attention to his salad, picking out the radishes. "I was a bit surprised when I found out that you were the one helping Penelope organize a surprise party for Dave Rossi."

His dining companion gave a soft hum, and he looked up to catch a fleeting smile on her lips.

"We actually get along now, Ruthie," she replied, grinning as her mind naughtily finished,  _You should've seen just how well we were getting along this morning_.

"Well, well, wonders never cease."

She laughed at the comment, because she knew that for someone like Ruthie (who'd witnessed some of their biggest battles), the idea of Strauss and Rossi finally behaving in a peaceful manner seemed to be a sign of the Apocalypse.

"We've mellowed in our old age," she informed him with a wry grin, and the twinkle in her eye told him that statement was far from the truth.

"How's he handling the Yates' thing?" Ruthie asked softly, and Erin's smile disappeared. Of course, he knew, because stuff like that always made its way through the Bureau grapevine, because it was just too twisted and macabre not to mention, because it was a prime example of why "others" would never fully understand their lives or their jobs.

"He's...he's being David about it," she answered. "You know how he is—ever the hero, always trying to be strong and unaffected, but deep down, it kills him."

The soft lines in her voice, the compassion and tenderness held within each word—those were the little clues which told Rutherford Golden that whatever dark thing had existed between Erin Strauss and David Rossi had completely transformed into something else entirely.

Ruthie leaned forward, delicately searching for the words to ask, "Erin...Erin, are you and David..."

"Yes," she blushed slightly, and suddenly he understood why she was glowing. "Yes, we are."

And damn her practical mind for silently adding,  _For now, at least_.

* * *

**Somewhere on Interstate 81 (East of Hazelton Penitentiary, Jonesville, Virginia).**

David Rossi took another deep breath, directing his attention to the innocuous spring sunshine seeping through the car windows and into his skin, to the smooth feel of the leather steering wheel beneath this hands, to the soft static sound vacuum created by going 75 miles per hour in his little black sports car—this was a coping technique he'd learned long ago, focusing on the smallest details of his surroundings to alleviate the toll of his emotions.

Another year, another name. Another call to Penelope Garcia, who quickly and quietly tracked down the closest living relatives of one Janie Loveland.

_Janie_. The name itself sounded young, carefree, happy and smiling and all the things that this person would never be again, all the feelings that Thomas Yates had taken away from her, all the feelings that David Rossi's arrival would take away from her loved ones, who probably still held onto some fragile, slim hope that their girl was still alive (even after all those years, David knew that the hope never really died, not until a body was found).

Yates had given him the location, and Garcia was contacting local PD, who would probably already have Janie's remains uncovered by the time David arrived.

He glanced at the clock on the dashboard, his mind flashing back to Erin's words:  _Call me...if you want to, if you need anything..._

The answer was yes on both counts. Yes, he wanted to, and yes, he needed to, needed the simple comfort of her voice. It was strange that only a few short weeks ago, he would never have imagined himself thinking such things—but his time spent with Erin had taught David Rossi that he didn't have to be alone, and more importantly, he didn't want to be.

He punched a button on his steering wheel, at which his hands-free system dinged to life and an automated voice broke the silence. "Phone. Please say a command."

"Call Erin Strauss."

"Calling Erin Strauss," the voice repeated.

The phone rang only once before Erin's voice came over the line, "David?"

He almost wept at the sound of her voice. Instead, he answered, "Hey, bella."

"Where are you going this time?" She didn't waste time with pleasantries. In a way, it was a relief.

"Back to Nevada. Penelope was able to get me on a flight that leaves tonight."

"You could have taken the Bureau jet," she reminded him gently.

"I could have," he agreed softly, and she seemed to understand why he didn't (because this was his own burden, his own deal with the devil, and because he didn't want to sit alone in a big empty cabin for hours on end, with just his thoughts for company), because she didn't press the matter any further.

"You're on your way back?" It was more of a statement than an actual question, something to keep him talking, and for that, he was grateful.

"Yeah. I've got another six hours before I'm back, then it's straight to the airport."

"Do you...do you want me to keep you company, on the drive?" The question was halting, as if she feared imposing, and he could imagine the uncertainty in those beautiful green eyes.

"I'd like that." He admitted, feeling his throat tighten with unshed tears at the confession.

"Ok," she said softly. He could hear her rustling around, "What—I don't know—what should we talk about?"

It was almost funny, how awkward something as simple as a phone conversation could be. It only furthered the realization that they were truly entering new territory.

"I don't know," David admitted, giving a slight gesture with his hands. "I just don't want to think about disposal sites or dead girls or anything like that. Tell me what you're doing right now."

"I'm folding laundry. It's a very glamorous life I have here." She laughed and he imagined that she was shaking her head wryly, "I'm sorry, darling; I've never been good at chit-chat. I used to get very low marks in conversation in finishing school."

"You went to finishing school?"

"Yes, I did—at my mother's insistence, might I add. I even was a debutante, just like my mother."

"Really?"

"You sound surprised."

"I am, a bit." Actually, after the way David had seen Erin behave at high-society events, that fact really didn't surprise him at all. Still, it was an interesting thought, trying to imagine a young Erin Breyer in a white ball gown, belle of the ball.

"I'll have you know, David Rossi, I am one fucking classy lady," her tone was dry, laced with the sarcastic humor that had first attracted him to her so many years ago.

"You certainly are," he agreed with a grin. There was a beat of silence as his eyes scanned the horizon, which seemed unchanging and eternal and much too far away from the soft owner of the voice currently slipping through his speakers.

"I'm really no good at this," she said regretfully. "I'm not good at comforting you with words. If you were here, I would—I could hold you. I'm not sure what you need me to say."

"The sound of your voice is enough," he assured her, and he was slightly surprised to realize that it was completely true—he'd already turned up the volume, so that her smooth voice was carrying over the speakers, filling the car with a soothing presence, even as she joked about her mundanely domestic life. He took a deep breath before he spoke again, "Tell me a story, bella."

"A story?"

"Any story. A story from your day, something you've heard, anything."

"Ok…" she seemed to be thinking. "How about a poem?"

"Let's hear it."

"It's in French."

"It's still your voice."

He could sense that she was blushing. "You always say the smoothest things. Makes a girl feel flattered."

"Tell that to my exes."

This earned him a sharp laugh. She hummed again, resuming an air of semi-seriousness. "It's a poem I had to memorize years ago, in college, and it's just always stuck with me."

"Can't wait."

"You have to stop talking, David," she chided. "I can't recite the poem if you're talking."

"If you'd go ahead and recite it, then I would stop talking."

"Shut up and listen," she gave a huff of mock irritation, and he smiled as he imagined Erin rolling her eyes at this antics.

She began, her French accent becoming stronger and more certain with each verse:

" _Je vis, je meurs: je me brule et me noie,_

_J'ai chaud extrême en endurant froidure;_

_La vie m'est et trop molle et trop dure,_

_J'ai grands ennuis entremêlés de joie._

_Tout à un coup je ris et je larmoie,_

_Et en plaisir maint grief tourment j'endure,_

_Mon bien s'en va, et à jamais il dure,_

_Tout en un coup je sèche et je verdoie._

_Ainsi Amour inconstamment me mène_

_Et, quand je pense avoir plus de douleur,_

_Sans y penser je me trouve hors de peine._

_Puis quand je crois ma joie être certaine,_

_Et être en haut de mon désiré heur,_

_Il me remet en mon premier malheur."_

David had no idea what she was actually saying, but he could feel the emotions running through the verses, and regardless of the emotion, he was completely entranced by the new hue and tone that Erin's voice adapted.

"I think I'm going to ask you to speak to me in French more often," he admitted, and she gave a slight hum of amusement.

"L'aimez-vous, Monsieur?" She purred.

David knew enough  _le Français_  to respond, "Oui, je l'aime."

"Très bien," she complimented him. "I think I'll have to teach you more."

"And I'll teach you Italian."

"So we can talk dirty in three different languages?"

"Well, as you pointed out, you are one fucking classy lady."

She cackled at the quip, giving a happy sigh before she spoke again, "Alright, teach me something."

"Now?"

"Well, do you have something else to occupy your time?" She drawled, and he gave a small laugh as he realized that she had a point. He still had many miles to go before he reached the airport, and he still needed something to take away the dread and despair that would settle back onto his chest like a weigh the instant he boarded the plane. Teaching Erin Strauss to purr out naughty directives in near-perfect Italian was definitely a worthwhile distraction.

"Alright, bella, let's start with the basics."

* * *

_"I live, I die: I burn and I drown,_

_I feel extreme heat in enduring coldness._

_Life is to me both too soft and too harsh,_

_I have great languor intertwined with great joy._

_At the same time, I laugh and I cry,_

_And in pleasure many a severe torment I endure,_

_My good disappears—it never lasts,_

_In the same instant, I wither and I bloom._

_In this way, Love inconstantly directs me_

_And just when I think I shall have more pain,_

_Without even thinking, I find myself far away from my affliction._

_Then, when I believe my joy is certain,_

_And am at the height of my desired pleasure,_

_It pulls me back to my first misfortune."_

_~Louise Labé, Sonnet VIII._

_(Translated by yours truly)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if the French version of Labe's Sonnet VIII has any errors, because I had to take the original middle French version and adapt it to modern French. I did keep some of the archaic words in place, because they are crucial to keeping the syllabic integrity of the French sonnet structure.
> 
> Other things you should just know: Louise Labe was a Renaissance poetess whose artfully composed sonnets were noted for their intensity and eroticism, and she is also one of the first female writers to write under her own name and be recognized for her literary skill during her lifetime. She was very well-educated for a woman during the 16th century, and she even wrote in Italian, hence making her the perfect choice for our lovely couple.


	16. Day of Reckoning

_ "Sometimes, the best way to help someone is just to be near them." _

_ ~ Veronica Roth. _

* * *

**May 2013. Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, Arlington County, Virginia.**

With a heavy sigh, David Rossi grabbed his go-bag from the overhead luggage bin, quietly waiting as the line moved forward, bringing him one step closer to home. Nevada had been hell; he'd sat in the Lovelands' living room as they'd held each other and wept at the news that their sweet Janie would truly never be coming home. Of course, they wanted to see the body—David understood that, understood the need to truly see and truly know that it was their girl, but he'd quietly told them that since Janie's body had been exposed to the elements for so long, it was best that they didn't see her. For the thousandth time, he'd asked himself what he would do in that situation—would he still insist to see the decayed remains, to be secure in the knowledge that his loved one was really gone, only to be haunted by the fact that it would be his last image of that person? He still didn't know the answer.

Once they deboarded the plane, he easily moved past the slower-moving passengers on the jetbridge, his legs relishing the ability to finally stretch their cramped and sore muscles. Of course, the main reason for his hurried pace had nothing to do with his legs—the quicker he moved, the sooner he would be back in Erin's arms.

He'd spoken to her just before his flight had taken off, and they'd decided that he would come to her house, since it was closer to the airport. The idea of her quietly waiting on the couch for him filled David with a soft warmth, and his entire being ached to be near her again.

As he exited the gate, he realized with sudden clarity that there must be a God above, and He must certainly love David Rossi.

Erin was standing anxiously in the waiting area, her face filling with an odd mixture of delight and concern when she saw him. He simply went to her, dropping his bag next to their feet as he wrapped his arms around her, taking a deep breath as he inhaled the familiar scent of her hair.

"I couldn't wait the extra hour," she whispered into his shoulder, referring to the time it would take for him to get from the airport to her front door.

"I'm glad," he admitted, planting a fierce kiss atop that blonde head. She turned her face up to meet his and they shared a quick, chaste kiss.

She grabbed his bag with her left hand as her right quietly slid into his own hand. David smiled at the gesture—it was simply another way for Erin Strauss to feel that she was taking care of her love, and truly, her gentle attentiveness was comforting.

She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze as they wove their way through the crowd, offering a small smile as she whispered, "Let's get you home, my love."

David gave a tired, grateful smile at the statement, his heart softly singing with the sweet knowledge that home was no longer a place, but a person, and with her fingers wrapped around his own, he was already home.

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia.**

Dr. Spencer Reid stared at the wood grain pattern on the tabletop, his mind traveling down paths that he'd wandered incessantly for weeks now.  _There has to be something I'm missing. There has to be._

Reid's brown eyes traveled back to the envelope. The date on the postmark was their start date—and all other dates and events seemed to rotate around it, like a little temporal solar system. Rossi's birthday was three days ago. They were now exactly six days away from the six-week mark, and twenty days away from the eight-week mark, which really meant it was a total guessing game when it came to deciding how much time was left before the big event.

Hotch had told them to explore every option, but the more they tried, the more everyone seemed to agree that the invisible ink note was a precursor to some impending event, and Blake's invitation theory had prevailed.  _But an invitation to what?_

_Everything means something, even if it just means that it means nothing at all_. Gideon had taught him that, and at first, Spencer had dismissed it as just another one of those odd sayings the FBI was so fond of quoting. Over the years, he'd realized the shining gem of truth among the contradictory words—one has to analyze every single detail in order to ensure that it truly has no meaning.

He did some quick mental math, and came up with his two dates—one for six weeks, one for eight weeks. Pulling out his cell phone, he did an internet search for holidays and historic events that fell on those dates. Grabbing a pen and notepad from the table, he jotted down a list of significant items, further researching the more mundane or archaic holidays, just to make sure that they didn't hold some significance.

Aaron Hotchner appeared in the doorway, his face lined with gentle concern as he asked, "How long have you been here?"

"Not long enough," Reid replied irritably. "I'll still haven't figured out what his plan is."

Hotch didn't have to ask who "he" was. "He" was the only other topic of conversation that his team seemed to discuss, aside from their current cases. Part of Aaron Hotchner hated that this UNSUB had taken away the casual camaraderie between his agents, the small comfort of being able to just talk about nothing, to allow them to unwind and recharge after the events of their day, but another part of him knew that the team's determination and single-mindedness was what made them good at their jobs, and eventually that would be what ended the Replicator's reign of terror.

"I know you're our resident genius, but catching this guy isn't solely your responsibility," he quietly reminded the younger agent.

Reid turned back to him, looking even younger with his crooked tie and his forlorn expression as he spoke in a heartbreakingly small voice, "But that's what I do, Hotch. I find the patterns that no one else can see. That's what I'm here for. If I can't do that, then what's the point?"

Aaron wanted to reassure Reid that the team valued him as more than just their own personal walking encyclopedia, to remind him that no one expected him to solve the entire case on his own, but he knew that the young doctor would only disagree more vehemently, so he simply crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorframe as he said, "Well, what've you got so far?"

Spencer turned back to the board, frowning as he organized his thoughts. "Garcia and I have the disposal sites narrowed down to three locations—the other sites have changed too much for our UNSUB to find them useful."

"And local PD has searched the sites and found nothing so far," Hotch added.

Reid sighed, "Which isn't surprising, considering the fact that we have no idea what they're supposed to be looking for."

"Maybe whatever we're supposed to find hasn't been dropped off yet," Hotch straightened his posture again, like a setter on-point as something in his mind clicked.

"It's possible," Reid said slowly, trying to figure out what was running through his unit chief's mind.

"When Haley and I sent out wedding invitations, the planner sent out an RSVP reminder two weeks before the wedding, for all the guests who hadn't responded yet," the older man continued. Then he gave a quick shake of his head, "I'm not sure that's what our UNSUB will do, but it's possible that he will send us something at least a week before the event. Yesterday would have been a week before the six-week mark. Let's re-contact all the local PD and have them look again today and next Saturday as well, since that will mark two weeks before the eight-week date."

Reid nodded in agreement, rifling through the stack of papers on the table to find the phone numbers for each police department. "If there isn't anything there today, that could mean that we are definitely looking at an eight-week time period."

"It could," Hotch agreed. "Or he could simply be lulling us into a false sense of security, or our theory is incorrect."

"I've looked at the two dates for each time frame," Reid added, glancing over at his notepad. "So far, neither seems to have any obvious significance, but I'll keep looking."

He found the contact information for each police department closest to a corresponding disposal site, dialing the first number and then handing the paper to Hotch, who already had his phone out as well.

"Good job on the RSVP connection," Reid commented before pressing the send button on his phone.

"We don't know if it's an actual connection yet," Hotch warned as he dialed the second number on the list.

"Well, it's more than we had before," the younger man reminded him.

Silently, Aaron Hotchner wondered if it was enough.

* * *

**Vienna, Virginia.**

David Rossi took a deep breath as he pressed the door bell at Erin's front door, swallowing another wave of nervousness as he glanced up at the clear blue sky. It felt weird, standing on her front doorstep like an awkward first date, when he'd spent so much (highly enjoyable) time here over the past few days.

Today was the day of reckoning. Anna was graduating high school tomorrow, and so Erin and her children were celebrating with a low-key day of grilling by the pool—and the trio of Strauss offspring had decreed that it would be the perfect time for everyone to get to meet Mother's Italian Lover (that was the moniker that her darling witty children had given David, using it as often as possible in casual conversation, mainly because they knew it aggravated their mother to no end).

It wasn't the first time that he'd dated a woman with children, but it was the first time that the children were all almost adults (something he'd never mention to Erin, for fear she would think that he was calling her old), and it was also the first time that he desperately wanted to be liked, because it was the first time that he'd entered a relationship with every intention of making it last.

He took a moment to glance back at the other vehicles parked in the driveway—the brightly colored Dodge Neon SRT4 with the spoiler and flashy rims was obviously Christopher's, and the hunter-green Jeep had to belong to Jordan (the EMILY's List bumper sticker was the final clue)—as he tried to profile the personalities depicted by the cars.

He heard the indistinct call of Erin's voice on the other side, heard someone shuffling behind the door. Then the door opened and his lover's smiling face appeared, looking slightly flustered.

"Everything alright?" He asked, only mildly concerned.

"I had to run to beat them to it," she admitted, her hand brushing back the hair that fell in her face. She stepped onto the front doorstep, closing the door behind her as she added, "I wanted to have a moment alone with you before I lead you into the lion's den."

"You make your children sound thoroughly charming," he quipped dryly and she laughed before leaning forward to kiss him. "Besides, I've met Anna, and she seems nice."

"She's my good one. I can't make any guarantees on the other two," Erin admitted. Noting his expression, she assured him, "They already love you and they haven't even met you yet."

"Maybe they love me  _because_  they haven't met me yet," he returned playfully, kissing her again, and Erin felt there might be a wave of fear behind his jokes.

Her fingers lightly smoothed across his chest as she warned, "They will—they will try to rattle you, but not in a malicious way. It's just how they are."

"Well, let's hope Mother's Italian Lover is up to the test," he grinned again as she rolled her eyes at the title.

"I should never have told you that," she sighed. "Your ego certainly didn't need the boost."

"It ain't ego if you really are awesome," he reminded her, and this earned him another eye roll. He could tell that her exasperation was mainly feigned, so he pulled her close, covering her mouth with his own one last time. His voice became softer as he asked, "You ready for this, bella?"

Erin felt another wave of nervousness pass through her entire body, but she plastered on a bright smile as she opened the door again, pulling him into the house.

"Only one way to find out."

Her smile faded when she turned away from him, leading him to the backyard, where her children were waiting—where Christopher was waiting, completely oblivious to just how significant this moment would be in his life, in all their lives. She felt another quiver of fear in her gut at the thought. What if David immediately recognized the similarities between the young man and himself? What if he did some simple math and figured it out, here, now, like this? What if Chris had some flash of perception? What if Jordan or Anna noticed the resemblance, what if they commented on it?

_Only one way to find out._

* * *

Jordan and Christopher Strauss were already in the pool, conferring quietly as they awaited the return of their mother and the infamous David Rossi. Anna was seated on the edge of the concrete, her long legs dangling in the water, and from her higher vantage point, she was the first to see movement from inside the house. Silently, she nudged Jordan with her foot.

Her older sister sat up, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of David. The French doors opened and Erin walked out onto the patio, followed by a dark haired man whom they instantly recognized from the dust jackets of the true crime novels in their mother's library.

"Let the games begin," Chris murmured, just loud enough for Jordan to hear, as they waded towards the ladder, coming out of the pool to officially meet this familiar stranger. His sister shot a mischievous grin over her shoulder at him—they weren't going to make David Rossi feel unwelcome, but they also weren't going to let the opportunity to make their mother squirm pass by without taking advantage of it.

David took a moment to size up the two young adults moving towards him. Jordan was shorter, with her mother's curves and wide green eyes (darker than Erin's but still a lovely hue). She had tattoos on each wrist, one on her foot, and her hair was dyed a bright red that made her look like a character from a comic book or video game. Christopher was much taller, with naturally dark hair and dark brown eyes that set him apart from his sisters, though his facial features marked him as Erin's child. Jordan wore a welcoming smile, but Chris' expression was schooled into one of mild boredom.

"Jordan, Christopher, this is David Rossi," Erin placed her hand on the small of David's back, silently reassuring him.

The three exchanged handshakes and brief greetings. By now, Anna had slipped up to the group, smiling at David as she said, "It's nice to see you again, Agent Rossi."

"You, too, Anna," he returned her smile. "And please, call me David."

"I'm sure Mom told you that we've really been looking forward to meeting you," Jordan's green eyes bounced to her mother's face and back to David's again.

"Same here," he commented.

"Well, now that we've met, let's get all the awkward questions out of the way," Christopher announced, taking a moment to exchange a veiled glance with his eldest sister before turning his dark eyes back to the older man. "What exactly are your intentions towards our mother dearest?"

Erin's face turned beet red, "Christopher Strauss—"

"It's a valid question," he retorted.

"We basically want assurances that you're not the hit-and-run type," Jordan informed David, which only increased Erin's chagrin. "Because we would be honor-bound to avenge her, you see."

"I regret ever wanting children," Erin groaned, clutching her forehead.

Despite the blonde's embarrassment, David Rossi was having a great time. He laughed at the mock-seriousness of the two faces standing before him—they were obviously testing him, seeing if he could roll with their punches, and he immediately decided that he liked these two partners-in-crime, with their blunt statements and quick wit (which they got from their mother, he knew).

"And how exactly would honor be served—just for future reference?" He asked.

The two glanced at one another again, silently communicating before Chris stated, "That would depend on the nature of the offense."

"I see," David's grin deepened. He continued to play along, placing a hand over his heart as he assured them, "I have only the purest intentions."

"Oh, let's not keep them  _too_  pure," Jordan quipped.

"Jordan Elaine!"

"What?" She feigned innocent confusion.

The phone rang from inside the house, and Erin gave her offspring one last warning glance before stating, "I'll be right back."

The remaining four people watched her walk away. David turned his attention back to the bright-eyed, quick young things that were still watching him with the interest and skill of seasoned profilers. He could tell from their body language that they were still open, welcoming him into their little world, and the nerves that had been fluttering around in his stomach since that morning disappeared. They liked him. At least for now.

"Perhaps you should go easy on her," he commented, though his grin belied his concern.

"Ah, she's a tough ol' broad," Chris waved away the thought.

"It's payback for all the embarrassing question-and-answer sessions she used to have with all of our dates," Jordan added.

" _Used_  to have?" Anna piped up, arching her eyebrow. "I still have to suffer the inquisition every time I even mention a guy's name."

"That's because you're still her innocent little lamb," Chris cooed, pinching his sister's cheek as if she were still an infant. She swatted him away with a dark scowl.

"Anna is her last hope of not raising a complete hellion," Jordan quipped, turning back to David with a smile. Her expression became softer as she returned to their earlier vein of conversation, "Seriously. Don't hurt her. She's still a bit fragile, although she'd die before admitting it."

David smiled at the assessment as Christopher spoke, finishing his sister's thought, "Mom wouldn't have let us meet you if she didn't think this was serious. We want her to be happy, but we also need you to understand what today means for her."

Erin's three children stared solemnly back at him, and David was actually touched by their concern (silently thankful that her kids really did adore her, the way he'd hoped they did). Like their mother, they apparently didn't believe in pulling punches, so David paid them the simple courtesy of being honest in return.

"I've known your mother for a very long time," he began.

"Almost thirty years," Jordan supplied.

He nodded, "Almost. And for most of that time, she was a good friend and a good colleague. I cared about her then, and I care even more deeply for her now."

"So deeply that you might even  _love_  her?" Anna's voice went up another notch, pressing the issue just a little bit further.

"Too far, Anna Claire," Jordan warned quietly. Erin was right—the older two apparently knew which lines not to cross. Anna had the excuse of still being a child.

The French doors opened again and the lady in question reappeared, quietly moving back to David as she commented dryly, "Well, I see they haven't ripped you apart completely."

"They were just asking if I love you," he answered easily, noting the silent glances exchanged between the three Strauss children.

"Oh? And what did you tell them?" She asked lightly, feigning concern.

"Nothing. You interrupted us."

"Then it looks like our secret's safe," Erin grinned. She turned back to her children, "Has the man passed whatever gauntlet you've devised, my clever dears?"

The two eldest Strauss progeny exchanged a quick glance. Then Christopher turned back to the older man, his face still serious, "Final question. Do you know how to operate a grill?"

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia.**

Spencer tossed the notepad back on the table with a sigh, slipping his cell phone into his back pocket as he announced, "That was the Carlin PD. They checked the site; they found nothing."

Aaron Hotchner simply gave a curt nod, his stomach sinking with the feeling that they were just on another wild goose chase, led astray by the Replicator in an attempt to distract them from his next move. All three police departments had called back to say that the Replicator hadn't left any obvious clues behind at the disposal sites, and it felt like they'd hit another dead end (despite Reid's insistence that it could mean that the UNSUB truly was operating on an eight-week time frame).

"I don't like this," Hotch admitted, those four words holding the fear and frustration of so many weeks.

Spencer let out a long sigh, his eyes traveling back to the boards, "Me, either."

* * *

**Vienna, Virginia.**

"No, no, that's totally not how it went," Jordan's voice rose to be heard over the laughter. "Because  _you_  were the one in the dress—"

"Absolutely not. I would never do such a thing," Christopher stated, his face in a mock expression of austerity. He and his elder sister were regaling the others with tales from their wild youth (which, technically, was still happening) as they sat around the patio table.

"That's not entirely true," Erin wiped away a tear (she'd been laughing so hard that she was crying). "Jordan used to dress you up in her princess gowns all the time when you were little."

"Whose side are you on, woman?" Chris demanded, and this only made his mother laugh even harder.

"You always did make such a pretty girl," Jordan cooed, reaching over to pat her brother's face. "With your pretty eyes and your soft skin."

"Wish I could say the same for you," he retorted, and his sister merely laughed.

David sat back, watching Erin's family interact. Aside from being highly entertaining, those three bright children brought out a side of Erin that he'd never witnessed—he'd seen her laugh before, and he'd seen her smile many times, but he'd never seen her so  _ecstatic_.

Jordan suddenly turned her green eyes to David, stating, "I bet you and Mom have some great stories—after working together for so many years, you two must've had some fun times."

Now it was David and Erin's turn to exchange cryptic glances as Erin slowly said, "Well...we didn't work together all the time—just on a few cases. And in the beginning...in the beginning—"

"We hated each other," David answered succinctly, giving a slight smile at the surprised expressions on the kids' faces. "We fought like cats and dogs most of the time."

"Well, not at first," Erin reminded him gently.

"Not until we had to spend more than ten minutes in the same room together," he corrected, and this earned him another laugh from the rest of the table as Erin merely shrugged in agreement. He leaned forward, affecting a mock-serious tone as he continued, "I know you'll find it hard to believe that your dear, sweet, docile mother could ever be anything other than her usual charming self—"

Erin cuffed him on the shoulder with a scowl as the others laughed at the sugary-sweet description.

"May I point out that I  _never_  had an issue with anyone else I've ever worked with, when I was an analyst," Erin defended herself. "Everyone else seemed to simply understand that I am always right."

Their audience laughed again. Jordan leaned forward, "So, did you two meet on a case—like one of the cases in your books?"

"Actually, we met in a bar after an office Christmas party," David replied with a small smile.

"This definitely sounds like a story we need to hear," Christopher decreed, sitting up and gesturing for the older man to continue. David glanced over at Erin, who was still smiling.

"You're gonna have to tell this story," she gave a slight wave of her hand. "I know that's how we met, but I don't remember the event itself. That whole night was a bit fuzzy."

She sat back in her chair, curling her knees to her chin as she glanced around the table at the shining faces of her children, all so eager to hear David's tale. Despite their jokes and their giddy delight at being able to embarrass their mother, they truly seemed to enjoy David's company, and that was important to Erin. She felt a slight pang as she watched Christopher listening to David—their similarities were even more striking when they were seated across the table from each other, but apparently no one else noticed. Obviously, people don't doubt things that they believe to be true, and that simple trick of human nature had kept the whole world from tumbling down around Erin this very afternoon.

Erin Strauss was never one for regret—it was useless, it didn't change the past, it only marred the present and ruined the future. But in this moment, she allowed herself the chance to think that this was how her life should have been, seated in the warm spring sunshine, with David and their children (yes  _theirs_ , because if her life's path had led her to him instead of Paul, she would have borne him many beautiful dark-eyed children, laughing and loving and happy like their father), as he quietly told them stories under the hazy afternoon sky. However, her practical mind told her if that had happened, then Jordan and Anna would not exist, and she could never regret them, not her strong daughters who reminded her of her own mother and her own self in so many ways, not the bright spirits who'd filled her life with so much love and laughter and gentle moments of motherhood that she wouldn't trade for anything.

No, she didn't regret the past. Not even the darker parts. Not even the parts that could possibly destroy all chance of future moments like this. Erin was committed to living only in this moment when it came to her life with David, because any thought of the future filled her with white-hot fear. So she simply pushed away the dark thoughts and forced herself to enjoy the peaceful moment afforded by this lazy afternoon, smiling at her lover as he talked about days so long ago.

* * *

**December 1985. Woodbridge, Virginia.**

"How the hell did she get here?" Special Agent Don Adams growled, clutching his fifth beer a little tighter.

David Rossi turned to see the object of his drinking companion's disdain—a young blonde with wide eyes and a nervous expression, craning a lovely neck as she searched the room for someone. She looked as if she'd come straight from the field, with her blue jeans and polo shirt beneath a clean-cut navy blazer, which barely went past the gun holstered on her hip.

"Who is that?" Rossi asked, his eyes never leaving the stranger.

"The latest addition to the Bureau's Finest and Brightest," Adams surled. "Erin Strauss."

Their other drinking buddy, Ruthie Golden, leaned forward in interest, "I've heard of her. Wasn't she tapped straight out of the Academy to join Keller's team in White Collar?"

"Yup." Adams grimaced. "She's a fast-tracker."

He made the last word sound like an insult, and in a way, it was. Fast-trackers were notoriously ruthless career-agents who wouldn't think twice about throwing a fellow agent under the bus if it meant keeping a bad mark off their own reputation.

"She doesn't look like a fast-tracker," Rossi commented, watching as she moved across the room, smiling nervously as she approached another group of agents and support personnel, mostly female. They welcomed her to their table, but when she sat down, she kept her shoulders forward, hands in her lap, self-contained. She looked as if she was ready to bolt out the door at any second.

"She is. And a total bitch to boot."

Rossi turned his attention back to Adams, who wasn't the most pleasant drunk, but usually wasn't quite so vehement or bitter. Of course, he usually didn't drink this much, either—this was the after-party for the office party, an unofficial and informal get-together with several other agents at the nearest bar, the cool-kids table of the Quantico lunch room.

"Whatsa' matter, Donnie?" Rossi wore an amused expression. "Did you make a pass and she turned you down?"

Adams next reply was completely unrepeatable.

Now Rossi and Ruthie exchanged knowing smiles, suddenly understanding the agent's ill humor. Don Adams was a hound of the worst kind, and whenever a woman rebuffed his advances (and they did so quite often), they somehow became the scum of the earth, unworthy of Don's attentions in the first place.

Adams continued mumbling into his beer, and Rossi excused himself to go talk to a cute little redhead who had caught his eye earlier in the evening.

Half an hour later, Rossi was leaning on the bar, waiting to order another round for himself and his ruby-locked friend, who was waiting patiently in a corner booth.

The Infamous Fast-Tracker appeared next to him, not really noticing him as she leaned across the bar, trying to get the bartender's attention. This gave Rossi a chance to check out her rather lovely posterior, which he gladly took.

Failing in her efforts to catch the bartender's eye, she gave a slight sigh, tapping her fingers nervously on the slick, dark wood of the countertop.

"It's gonna be awhile," David informed her, leaning in to be heard over the noise of the bar.

She jumped slightly, blushing at the realization that someone had been watching her.

"Is it always this busy?" She looked around, offering a smile as she tried to make polite conversation.

"Only around the holidays," he admitted. He motioned to the gun strapped to her hip. "Pretty brave, bringing that in here."

She self-consciously tucked her blazer closer to her body, as if shielding the weapon from his gaze. "I don't like leaving it in my car, especially in neighborhoods that I'm not familiar with."

He nodded in understanding. With his suavest of smiles, he extended his hand, "Special Agent David Rossi."

"Special Agent Erin Strauss." She smiled as she shook his hand (one firm shake, good grip, no-nonsense type).

The bartender came and took their orders, and they turned back to one another.

"I've heard of you, you know," her smile was something unreadable, almost coy, but not quite.

_Knowing. It's a knowing smile_. His brain found the word to describe it.

He simply feigned humility, waving away what was certain to be a litany of his greatest hits (the cases he cracked, the hard-hitting interviews he'd conducted with the world's darkest killers, the hostages he'd saved), something he'd become accustomed to hearing from wide-eyed cadets and news reporters everywhere.

"You really fucked up the negotiations down in Birmingham."

Those were not the words that he was expecting. He looked down at the smirking blonde, caught off-guard by her sudden change in gears. "Excuse me?"

She apparently thought he hadn't heard her, because she leaned in, raising her voice over the awful jukebox, "Birmingham! You really made a mess of it."

The look he gave her was priceless, and suddenly, she was howling with laughter.

"I'm sorry, I'm a little drunk," she admitted, still grinning mischievously up at the dark-haired agent. "I figured you have scores of cute co-eds singing your praises, so I thought I'd mix it up a bit."

Despite his initial shock, David found himself returning her smile. She had a little spark in her. He liked that.

The bartender set their beers in front of them. Erin quickly gathered up the ones for her table, with another smirk and a nod to his red-headed companion, "Speaking of cute co-eds, looks like you better get back to business."

Again, he couldn't help but grin at the blonde bombshell that was weaving her way through the crowd—almost a completely different person from the nervous woman who'd entered just thirty minutes earlier.

He made a mental note to find her and get her drunk in the future. That one looked like trouble, trouble indeed. And Rossi was nothing if not a sucker for a saucy broad.


	17. Epiphany

_"Why did she marry him? She married him out of love. She married him out of guilt; out of fear of being alone; out of patriotism."_

_~Michael Cunningham, The Hours._

* * *

**May 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

The office was dark and quiet and empty, although it was barely after 6 pm. Erin moved through the BAU bullpen, the tidy desks seeming so foreign without their usual inhabitants and piles of paperwork and files. The team was half a continent away, working on a child abduction, and they'd been gone for two whole days now.

She missed him. Her body physically ached at his absence, a new development that was at once exhilarating and frightening. She'd never felt this way for anyone—hell, she'd never even felt this way for him in the past. The day had been filled with enough distraction to keep her thoughts of him at bay, but now the work was done and the absence of him flooded her body with a strange swelling, as if she might float away without his touch to ground her.

 _Silly, stupid girl_ , chided her inner voice, which always sounded oddly like her mother.  _You opened Pandora's Box and now you're wondering why it feels like hell._

She briefly wondered if she had a brain tumor. That would be the most logical explanation for why she'd so suddenly and so completely changed into this trembling ball of need and want, always anxiously awaiting his next appearance, his next touch, his next word, his next smile, the next breath for her feverish lungs, the next supply for this strange addiction that had lain dormant for over 20 years.

It was with a sense of frightening clarity that Erin Elaine Breyer Strauss realized that for the first time in her entire life, she was truly, madly, deeply  _in love_.

The realization brought a strange mixture of emotions. Part of Erin was happy to know that, after all these years, she truly wasn't as defective as she'd thought—she was capable of passion, capable of desire and tenderness and love and lust all mixed together in a heady concoction. Another part of her was saddened to realize that if she was capable of such feelings, then she'd never felt them towards Paul, which made her wonder: why hadn't she felt this way about her husband of twenty-nine years? Of all the men who deserved her love and devotion, of all those truly worthy of only her deepest and best, Paul Strauss had been the one.

Maybe Erin was simply looking at it the wrong way. Maybe love wasn't about being worthy or deserving. Maybe it wasn't about that at all.

She really hoped that was true. She didn't deserve David's love and devotion, but the thought of being without it filled her with a deep, mind-searing panic that filled every fiber of her being.

At the same time, she felt a wave of sadness for Paul—for how her skewed perception of love had kept him a prisoner for years, how her sense of duty had robbed them both of years of passion and potential happiness with another person, how once again she'd actually done more harm than good, when all she'd wanted was to make that deserving man happy.

Just another thing for which to atone, she supposed. Gods, that list seemed to be growing every day.

* * *

**October 2011. Vienna, Virginia.**

The sound of the clock seemed to echo through the entire house, and it was so silent that Erin could even hear the tick-tick-ticking of the sprinkler system on the front lawn. Outside the sun shone; it was a beautiful, warm day, part of the Indian summer that had suddenly struck, but her hands felt like ice as she cautiously watched her husband pace around the living room.

It was one of those quiet Saturday afternoons when they had the entire house to themselves—normally Erin would lay out by the pool until she was happy and warm from the sun, then she would come back into the house, pull Paul from his study and back into their bed to make sleepy, gentle love, drifting into an afternoon nap before the kids returned.

But this was not a normal day. For weeks now, Paul had been distant and distracted—she'd assumed it was because of his latest project, and she quietly gave him the space he needed. Today, he'd haunted her steps around the house, acting strange and nervous, and the heavy weight of premonition had settled into her stomach when he finally told her that they needed to talk.

"Paul, whatever you have to say, please, just say it," she tried not to snap at him, though the irritation still shaded her voice. Her husband was generally not the timid, bumbling thing that stood before her now, and his sudden change in demeanor scared her.

He stopped pacing and sat down in the armchair (not next to her, on the couch).

"I can't do this anymore, Erin," he admitted, dropping his head in his hands.

"Do what?" She heard her own voice asking dumbly, although the pounding dread in her throat and chest already knew the answer.

"Us. Erin, I can't. Not anymore." His hands (usually so strong and sure and sheltering) quivered in a helpless gesture as he let out a deep sigh laced with unshed tears.

She felt like she'd been sucker-punched in the gut.

"Is it…is there someone else?" She regretted the words the instant they left her lips.

His eyes were filled with hurt, "I'm not that kind of person, Erin. You know that."

"I do. I do know that," she gently agreed, sensing the other silent half of Paul's comment— _I'm not that kind of person, Erin, but you are_. She'd never said anything about her affairs with David, and Paul never acted as if he suspected, but deep down, Erin had always felt that he must have known. Maybe he didn't. Maybe it was just her own guilty conscience.

"Then why? I thought—I thought we were happy," Erin finished lamely, knowing as she said them that they were, in fact, lies. They weren't happy. They hadn't been happy for quite some time, but they hadn't been fighting, either—they'd simply been drifting along, and to her, that was as close to happy as they'd ever be, so she was content. Until now, she thought that Paul was content as well.

"Erin," he took a deep breath. "I don't think I've really been happy since Anna Claire was little."

That confession was like a knife to his wife's heart, because so much of her life had been built around trying to make him happy (because he deserved to be happy, because even though she couldn't love him the same way he loved her, she had always wanted to make him happy). They'd chosen this house because he liked the location and the floor plans, Erin had borne him (two) children because he'd wanted to be a father, she'd sacrificed entire parts of her personality in order to become the pristinely perfect wife that he deserved (though she'd failed on that part, many times).

"I'm…I'm so sorry," she whispered, her gaze falling to the coffee table between them. She'd failed him so many times, in so many ways, and now she was faced with the fact that despite her attempts to rectify her inadequacies, it still wasn't enough. She'd failed yet again. She'd given so much, and yet, she could never give enough, could never give him what he truly needed, and that realization sent another pang of guilt and sadness through her chest.

"I know," her voice shook, and she took a moment to steel herself before continuing. "I know that I've never been good at…at talking about things, about being everything that you need, but I thought—I really thought that you were still happy—with me, with us, with the children, with our life together, I thought—"

"Why did you marry me?" Paul interrupted, his face completely impassive. Erin took a deep, unsteady breath. She knew that he wouldn't like what she had to hear, but he needed to know, and she would give him that—gods knew, he deserved that much.

"Because you asked me to." She replied simply, her grey-green eyes flicking upward and latching onto his blue ones. Her voice was gentle, etched with compassion, "You asked me to, and I knew that it would break your heart if I said no, and I never wanted to hurt you, so I said yes. And I thought that meant that I loved you, because…isn't that love? Wanting to spare someone from pain, wanting to do whatever it takes to make them happy—isn't that love?"

In that moment, Paul Christopher Strauss felt a wave of sadness crash over his soul—not for the confession (which, upon reflection, wasn't that startling), but for the confessor, the woman with the pleading eyes and the hurt expression, who truly couldn't comprehend the meaning of love.

"No, Erin," he said softly, reaching for her hand. "That's not love."

Confusion flooded her face as tears filled her eyes, "Then…then what were the last twenty-nine years about?"

She stood, her sorrow quickly morphing into anger as she gestured around the room—their home, the place they'd filled with memories and lived in and made love in and created children in and raised a family in and laughed and cried in. "What was all this? All these things, what did they mean? What was this, if it wasn't love?"

She was breathing heavily now, on the verge of hysteria (the fact that she'd already had a few glasses of wine probably didn't help the situation, Paul thought bitterly) as she moved around the room, picking up family photos as if she were showing exhibits to the jury in a trial, "Then what was this? And this? And why do we go to Boston every year for our anniversary? And why did you send flowers and write letters? All those nights, all those moments...what were all the fucking little moments  _for_ , if it wasn't love?!"

There was an awful, sickening silence as Paul simply looked down at the coffee table (the one they'd found at a little road-side bazaar on the way home from a weekend getaway, Erin remembered suddenly and painfully).

"I loved you, Erin," he said quietly, his eyes not meeting hers. The fact that he was using the past tense did not escape her scrutiny. "I loved the woman you were when we met. And when I asked you to spend the rest of our lives together, I thought that I would love every variation of the person you would become, every shade of you. And I did—I still do."

"Then why are you leaving?" She asked, her voice impossibly small and fragile.

"Because it hurts too much." He admitted, clasping his hands together. That wasn't enough of an explanation, and after she'd been so (brutally) honest with him, he knew that he had to afford her the same courtesy. "Erin, so much has happened these past few years—losing your mother, your father, the added stress of your job, the stuff with Andrew—"

"And you're upset because I've let that change me?" She felt another wave of anger rising deep within her chest. "It hurts too much to see that I'm not that happy-go-lucky girl from our university days?"

"No." Paul's voice was hard, stopping Erin mid-rant, and she felt a slight quiver of relief—there was her Paul, who was sure of himself, who knew what he meant, who knew how to push back whenever Erin pushed him. He took a deep breath, "It's not that you've been changed by these things. It's how you've decided to cope with them."

She felt the air leave her lungs. Paul knew that he'd hurt her with those words, had inadvertently called her weak and unstable, had accidentally triggered old alarms and old fears and failings deep within the woman he loved, and he regretted his choice of words.

He tried to soften the blow, "I understand that it can feel overwhelming sometimes—"

Her expression hardened as she gave a contemptuous snort, "You  _understand_? How could you possibly understand? Both of  _your_  parents are still alive;  _your_  baby brother isn't wasting away with cancer,  _your_  job doesn't make you want to give up on humanity on a daily basis—tell me, Paul, how can you even  _begin_  to understand what I'm going through? How dare you judge me—how  _dare_ you—"

"This isn't a pissing contest, Erin—"

"Ah, yes, because anytime I mention the fact that I have had to deal with much harder things than you have, I'm somehow using it as a get-out-of-jail-free card." She rolled her eyes heavenward, the tears and frustration evident in her voice. "I can't even talk about what's happening in my life because you suddenly turn it into—"

" _Our_  life." His voice was low, but it held enough weight to somehow be heard over Erin's. His blue eyes flickered upwards to meet her green ones. "It's our life, Erin. What happens to you, happens to me, and we go through it together, because all those years ago we got rid of the  _you_  and the  _me_  and everything became  _us_."

She looked down at the floor. He took another deep breath, "That's the problem here, Erin. You're pulling away; you won't let me be a part of any of it. You say it's your life, your problems, and you shut me out. You discount the last thirty years like they mean nothing; you destroy everything we built by saying it isn't ours anymore."

He was right. She knew that he was right, and he knew that she knew it, too. Nine years ago, when her mother had died, Erin had slowly begun to pull away from Paul. The slow loss of her father to Alzheimer's had created an even wider gap between them over the past six years, and when he died earlier that summer, another wedge was put between them. Now Andrew, Erin's youngest brother, had informed the family that he'd been diagnosed with Stage III liver cancer, and Erin seemed to disappear completely. The problem was that she'd disappeared into the bottle—back into the hell that she'd walked away from just a few short months ago.

"Erin," he spoke her name like a prayer of supplication, like a drowning man calling out for a life line. He didn't want to leave; he didn't want to lose her, and he was throwing it all in on one last shot. "I'm watching you drift away...just like before. I can't lose you like that again, not this time. If you do that again, I don't think you'll come back."

Suddenly her bones melted with compassion for this man, for his quiet fears and his silent sufferings, all caused by her own selfishness and weakness. She moved towards him, her hands reaching as if she wanted to hold him, but she pulled back, "Darling, I'm not—I'm not drifting away again. I would never—I wouldn't put you through that again, you know that. It was just...that's all behind me now. I'm better; you know I am."

He shook his head sadly, "This is exactly how it started last time—you denied there was a problem, you swore you would never be that person, that you would never—"

"I went to rehab," she retorted, her voice hardening. "I did my 28 days, I did the whole AA thing—"

"You haven't been to a meeting in  _months_ —"

"But...but I'm better now," she offered helplessly. "I don't need the meetings."

"You're an  _alcoholic_ , Erin," he returned flatly. "You will always be an alcoholic. It's part of who you are; there isn't some magic cure—"

"I was weak then, but now I'm stronger," her voice rose a notch higher, as if she could force him to believe her simply by increasing her volume.

"It isn't about being strong, Erin—"

"Then what is it about,  _Paul_?" She made his name sound like an insult.

"It's about realizing that you can't handle this on your own!" He was on his feet, throwing his arms out in a gesture of exasperation.

A beat passed. Erin folded her arms over her chest, looking very much like a stubborn child. Her chest and her cheeks were a deep stain of red, and Paul knew that if they weren't in this room, surrounded by breakable family heirlooms, she probably would have thrown something to exorcise her anger. She always was the more physically expressive of the two, and he was surprised that she hadn't already slammed her fist or pushed him.

"I don't know what to do anymore, Erin," he admitted with a heavy sigh.

Her anger broke as well, her hands covered her face as she sighed, too. "What do you want me to do?"

A part of Paul actually wanted to laugh at her simple question—Erin still believed that things were salvageable, that there was still something she could do to fix this.

Ever the die-hard, she did try to fix it, and it only made his heart ache all the more as she continued, "What do you—do you want me to let you go? Do you want me to fight for you? What do you want, Paul?"

"I don't know. I honestly don't know." It was true, and Erin knew it. He was just as lost and scared as she was.

She bit her lip, looking down at the floor again, "I never wanted to make you unhappy. You…you deserve so many things, and I tried to be those things, even when I knew that I could never really, truly be….and…and I'm sorry that I'm not, that I wasn't. I am so sorry. I never wanted this for you."

"I know," he answered simply, with a finality that struck Erin like the tolling of a funeral knell. There was a moment of heavy silence as they mourned the passing of what had been between them.

The stillness was broken by the sound of Anna crashing through the garage door. "Lucy, I'm home!"

"We'll finish discussing everything later," he promised, and she nodded, pulling back her shoulders and retreating into her armor as their youngest daughter bounced into the room.

That night, they began the quiet and painful process of slowly separating their hearts and emotions from one another, talking about things like apartments and who-keeps-the-house and how-do-we-tell-the-children and holidays and joint-custody in flat, lifeless, tired voices.

They decided to wait until after the holidays—it was already going to be painful enough for the children, after all that had happened during the past year—but Paul decided that he would take a small flat in the city and start spending more nights in D.C., as some form of a trial separation. They went to sleep, two strangers sharing a bed, and the next morning, Erin decided to start her day off with a glass of wine (because, hey, why not?).

Less than two months later, Erin was calling to ask Paul to stay at the house full-time again, because she was being checked into a 90 day treatment program, due to her actions on the Somerville Academy case. He quietly told her that he would stay, for Anna and for the other children, and as soon as Erin was allowed to have visitors, she found him patiently waiting in the receiving area, a small bouquet of tulips and a stack of her favorite books to help pass the time. His kindness and concern, despite everything that had happened between them, filled Erin with some gentle form of adoration, that familiar feeling of warmth that she'd always mistaken for love.

He truly was a good man. She truly didn't deserve him. And he certainly didn't deserve the hell she'd put him through, over all these years. He deserved to be loved—richly, deeply loved by a woman with gentler hands and a more stable personality, a woman with less angst and self-loathing, a woman who would and could love him in ways that Erin never had, a woman who would never commit such heinous crimes against his sweet and tender soul.

And so, just like that, she let him go.

* * *

**May 2013. Gulfport-Biloxi International Airport, Mississippi.**

"Yes, ma'am, we're getting ready to board the plane right now," Aaron Hotchner answered, glancing across the tarmac at the jet in question.

"Have a safe flight, Agent Hotchner," Erin's smooth voice came across the line again. "And let the team go home early today. I think they've earned it."

"I certainly will," he agreed, his dark eyes traveling back to his team, who all looked a little worse for wear. They'd found the missing child—alive, relatively unharmed—but the emotional and psychological toll of the past few days had begun to wear them down physically, and it showed. It was 8 am, and they'd be back in Quantico in a matter of hours, but Erin's suggestion of going home early sounded like a good plan. The idea of seeing Beth and Jack and finally sleeping in his own bed again was definitely an incentive to send everyone home the instant the plane landed in Virginia.

Less than thirty seconds after Hotch ended the call with Strauss, Dave's cell buzzed. Hotch fought back a grin as the older agent stepped away from the rest of the team, his voice dipping even lower as he answered. Derek Morgan seemed to be thinking the same thing as Hotch, because when he met his unit chief's eyes, he arched his eyebrows knowingly, and the two men shared a silent laugh at the strange change that had happened seemingly overnight between their section chief and their fellow agent.

Love was a many-splendored thing.

* * *

"Chris and Jordan are coming over tonight," Erin's voice was filled with a slight regret. Then she added quickly, "But you could still come over—they'd love to spend more time with you. I'll leave the office early, too, we'll spend the evening by the pool. You can unwind a bit."

David gave a soft smile, "Sounds good, bella."

"I won't be able to leave until around 4:30 or so," Erin immediately went into her command mode. "So you should go home and get some sleep after you land. I'll call you when I'm leaving."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Be safe. I love you."

"I love you, too, bella."

"It was a good day, wasn't it?" She asked hesitantly—she'd gotten a brief overview from Agent Hotchner, and she knew the child had been found alive, but she also knew that she didn't have all the details, and she wanted to make sure that none of those unknown facts had negatively affected her love.

He smiled again, understanding the concern behind her question and loving her all the more for it. "It was. I'll see you soon."

By the time he hung up, David had to jog to catch up with the others, who were already walking towards the jet. Morgan looked over at him with his usual coy grin.

Dave had given up trying to play the austere old man when it came to Morgan's hints about his relationship with Erin. He simply grinned, too, shaking his head as he said, "Don't even start."

"I didn't say a word," the younger man replied smoothly, trying to look innocent (and failing).

There was a small sound from JJ, and Rossi looked up to see that the corner of her mouth was threatening to curl into a grin as well. He glanced at the others—Hotch was smiling, Reid was looking down at the ground, trying not to smile, and Blake seemed amused.

They all knew. The realization didn't exactly come as a surprise, especially after Garcia had let it slip that Erin had been the true mastermind behind David's surprise party, but Dave was a little shocked by how well they all seemed to be taking it. Hell, even  _Blake_  seemed OK with the new development. He'd expected a little more resistance, a few more quiet warnings from Hotch and Morgan, perhaps even a slightly-betrayed cold shoulder from Alex, but so far, nothing.

JJ must have noticed his confusion, because as Hotch and Reid began climbing the stairs onto the jet, she slipped to the back of the line, next to David. She gave him a shy smile before softly saying, "Regardless of how we feel about her professionally, Erin Strauss is personally good for you. And really, that's all we care about."

She gave his upper arm a light squeeze of reassurance before heading up the steps. He took a moment to consider her words, and he knew that was as close to receiving the team's blessing as Erin would ever get, and he'd take it. Erin's children had accepted him, and now his own little family had given their approval as well. As his mama used to say,  _It's all coming up roses._

* * *

**Vienna, Virginia.**

David suddenly decided that the smooth plane between Erin's shoulder blades was now his new favorite part of her body (well, maybe it was a close second...or third...).

He was currently stretched out in a lounge chair, enjoying the last rays of the sun and trying not to stare as she crouched next to the edge of the pool, quietly having a conversation with Anna. She was wearing a white halter top with an open back, and after spending most of past weekend outdoors, her skin was beginning to develop a warm glow.

She must have felt his eyes on her, because she looked up and flashed him a quick, shy smile, turning back to say something to Anna, brushing back a wet lock of hair from her daughter's face. Anna took her mother's hand, as if she were telling her mother something very profound, and David smiled.

Apparently the teenager was more adept at subterfuge than David first believed, because suddenly, Anna's grip tightened on Erin's arm and she pushed against the edge, effectively pulling her mother into the water with a shriek.

"Anna Claire!" Erin was above the surface again, mopping the hair from her face. Her youngest child was smart enough to swim out of reach, laughing at her mother's misfortune. She reached the other end of the pool and Christopher gave her a small nod of approval.

Jordan, who'd been dozing in a lounge chair, sat up at the commotion, grinning when she saw what had happened.

"Here, Mom," the red head stood, grabbing a nearby towel and meeting Erin at the ladder.

"I've lost a shoe," Erin announced, quickly spotting it beneath the surface and diving to retrieve it. She tossed both flip-flops back onto the concrete before pulling herself up the ladder, gratefully taking the beach towel from Jordan. She turned back to give her youngest daughter a dark look, "I know where you sleep, young lady."

Anna didn't seem too concerned, and David fought back a grin at the scene before him (though his grin was of a slightly different nature—Erin wasn't wearing a bra and her shirt was white and apparently the water was very cold). That lovely sight quickly disappeared beneath the towel, and with one last long-suffering shake of her head, Erin disappeared back into the house.

"You should probably go check on her," Jordan informed him as she walked past his lounge chair, en route to her own.

David took a moment to study the younger woman's expression—there were still moments when he felt like Erin's children were testing him, searching for answers to unspoken questions, and this felt like one of those unknown tests.

However, Jordan didn't have that usual gleam in her eye as she sat down. She simply looked at him, waiting for his response. She was giving him an excuse to have a moment alone with Erin, and with it came some odd acknowledgment that she understood how much he needed a little healing time with the blonde.

"I suppose you're right," he stood, thankful for the chance to slip away for a few minutes.

Jordan's smirk was eerily similar to her mother's as she dryly remarked, "I am my mother's child. Of course I'm right."

He laughed at the quip before slipping back into the silent house, to the closed door of Erin's bedroom. He found her in the large master bathroom, shivering as she pulled off the wet clothes and threw them on the beach towel, which was now on the tile floor.

"Surely the water wasn't that cold, bella."

She jumped at the sound of his voice, clutching her chest, "Jesus H. Christ, David, are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

He merely grinned in response, stepping into the bathroom and grabbing another towel from the ornate metal rack, gently wrapping her in it. She gratefully took the towel, drying off her body before turning her attention to her hair. She could feel him still standing behind her, could feel the warmth of his body and that strange familiar zinging under her own skin that always alerted her of his presence.

"Y'okay?" She asked quietly, taking a moment to meet his gaze through the mirror.

"I am," he answered truthfully, and she gave a curt nod at the reply, wrapping the towel around her body again before turning to face him. She smiled, raising up on the balls of her bare feet to kiss his jaw.

"I missed you," she admitted softly, her hands cupping the sides of his face. She bit her lip before adding, "I missed you more than ever, this last time. I think I'm addicted to you, David Rossi."

"I've been told I have that effect on women." He shrugged nonchalantly, and this earned him a light guffaw and a spat on the shoulder as Erin rolled her eyes and sashayed back into the bedroom. He followed, leaning against the doorframe as he watched her sift through her dresser drawers, looking something suitable to wear. These were the moments in which he found her the most captivating—when she was engaged in simple, mundane things, completely unaware of the way she moved or the little expressions that rolled across her classical features, so unabashedly herself that he felt like a voyeur. This was the side of Erin Strauss that had been locked away from him for so long, and David never took these glimpses into daily life with Erin for granted.

She tossed some clothes onto the bench at the end of her bed and grabbed a bra from another drawer before turning back to the bench. The lovely, smooth space between her shoulder blades was exposed, calling to him again, and this time, he answered, moving forward to gently place his hands on her upper arms as his mouth found purchase on the freckled skin. He felt the slight intake of her breath at the feel on his warm mouth on her cool skin, and he smiled. Her flesh was cold and still damp and tasted of salt water; with her tousled hair and eyes the color of the sea, she was his own Venus reborn, more perfect that Boticellli's variation, more human and more fire and wit and everything that spoke to the depths of David Rossi's soul.

His lips continued their worship, moving further up, to the nape of her neck. He grinned as he heard her try to control her breathing.

"David, I can't think when you do that," she tried to sound reprimanding, but failed miserably. Her hands were already reaching up, caressing his head, pulling him closer to her, silently urging him to continue.

"I've missed you, too, bella," he informed her, smiling again when he heard her give a huff at the loss of his mouth on her skin. His hands snaked around to cup her breasts and she leaned back, relishing the solid feel of his chest.

"I've got to get dressed," she reminded him sadly. "The kids are still outside."

Now it was his turn to sigh as he released her, taking a seat on the bench as he watched her quickly get dressed. Once she was clothed, she stepped between his knees, resting her arms on his shoulders as she leaned forward, "Anna leaves for her week with Paul tomorrow morning. We'll have the whole weekend to ourselves."

He grinned at the promise, giving her ass a quick swat as they made their way back to the pool. She merely shot him a warning look, though it was less of a reproach and more of a way to make him smile even more, because he could be like a naughty child sometimes, delighting in the fact that he'd made her angry.

They exited through the French doors again and David took a deep breath, relishing the balmy evening air. He generally didn't consider himself a domestic man, but the scene before him filled him with a gentle happiness—Chris and Anna sloshing around in the pool, Jordan asleep on the lounge chair, Erin walking barefoot across the freshly-mown grass. His blonde Aphrodite turned back to him, offering another smile over her shoulder, and that simple action was enough to make his heart sing again.

JJ was right. Erin Strauss was good for him, in ways that he'd never even imagined. The simple sensation of her touch could calm his bones or ignite his blood, her glances and small smiles could fill him with the deepest happiness, her dry jokes and quick wit kept him on his toes, and though they'd known each other for almost three full decades, she never failed to surprise him.

This wasn't his house. These weren't his children. But the woman at the center of this quiet little universe was his, the lover of his soul and the spark of his lungs. And that was enough. Oh, yes, that was surely enough.

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia.**

This time, Hotch didn't ask why Spencer Reid was already in the office at such an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning. Today was the day that their RSVP theory would be proven, in one way or another.

Spencer practically sprinted towards his unit chief, his body language telling Hotch that their theory had indeed been correct.

"There was an item found at each dump site," he spoke quickly, even faster and higher-pitched than usual. "A soccer ball, a kid's cup from a restaurant, and a text book. They've been dusted for prints, and local PD has already shipped the items back to Quantico. They'll be in our lab by tomorrow."

"I suppose it'd be too much to ask for a positive ID on any of the finger prints," Hotch knew better than to be hopeful. Again, Spencer's expression answered before his mouth did.

"There's so many prints on each item...the local labs are running the prints now, but so far, there haven't been any matches."

"Any idea what they could mean?" Hotch referred to the items.

"Not yet," Spencer admitted sadly. "There's got to be something we're missing, some kind of key that makes them all connect."

* * *

**Vienna, Virginia.**

Erin Strauss smiled at the slight twinge in her muscles as she pulled out another stubborn weed from the dark earth of the flower bed, blushing at the realization that David had actually made her pull a muscle the night before. Anna had left yesterday morning, and so last night had been a celebration of a week's worth of passion that had been put on-hold by work and familial obligations. It had been worth every second of the soreness she felt this morning.

It was their first weekend together—although David had to go into the office to consult on a few conference calls, they would reconvene later that evening at his house, and tomorrow would be a blissful day shared just between the two of them. They were both almost giddy at the prospect, and Erin was amazed at how something so simple as a day spent together could hold so many promises and moments of joy.

She was supposed to be off today as well. Of course, that hadn't stopped all and sundry from calling her cell every five minutes with minor emergencies, constantly interrupting her attempts at waging war against the weeds in her flower beds.

Her phone buzzed again, and Erin let out another frustrated sigh, ripping another herbaceous invader from the ground before removing her gardening gloves. She pulled her cell phone from her back pocket, answering with a tart, "Strauss."

"Wow. You sound absolutely cheerful." Carrington seemed completely unfazed by her boss' tone.

"Do you people not understand the simple concept of a day off?" Erin sighed, sitting back on her heels as she sadly surveyed her lack of progress. "It's not a hard concept to grasp, really—when I say that I'm off for the day, it means that I am not working. And if I am not working, then it means that you shouldn't call me to discuss work-related matters. Is that difficult to comprehend, Carrington?"

"How do you know that I wasn't calling just to talk dirty to you?"

This response made Erin laugh. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

"Well, your earlier snippiness has officially ruined your chances of receiving an obscene phone call today," Carrington informed her.

"And my heart aches at the loss."

"It should."

"What's up?"

"Do you remember how you told me to forward all incoming mail—"

"You don't have to ask me that every time you get mail for the BAU, Carrington—I'm old but I'm not dotty; of course I remember. Get to the point." Erin felt a flutter of fear in her stomach, which she quickly replaced with irritation (because she could deal with anger, it made her stronger and harder, made things easier to handle, unlike fear, which made her weak and scared and uncertain and completely useless).

"There's another envelope today." Carrington spoke hesitantly, knowing that the news was not welcome. "No return address, postmarked from D.C."

"I'll be there in half an hour."

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia.**

Dora Carrington thought she might die of shock when Erin Strauss showed up in light blue linen pants and a casual white linen shirt, still smudged from her morning spent in the dirt, with sandals on her feet and her hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. Dora was certain that it was the first time that she'd ever seen Erin without makeup—during the entire eight years that she'd known the section chief, she'd never seen Erin looking anything less than perfectly coiffed and coutured, which was nothing like the woman who practically rushed into her office this morning.

"Where is it?" Her boss didn't waste time with pleasantries.

The receptionist immediately produced the envelope, holding her breath as Erin moved into her office, shutting the door behind her.

With trembling hands, Erin found her letter opener and quickly sliced open the envelope. Her inner investigator warned that she shouldn't touch the contents without wearing gloves, but when she peered in and saw what was inside, she couldn't help it. Slowly, she removed a stack of photographs—in black and white, just like the ones of the BAU team. The problem was that it wasn't the faces of the team members staring back at her.

The first photo was Henry, Agent Jareau's son, smiling up at his mother as they walked across some playground. The next was Jack Hotchner, playing soccer. While these first two photos filled her with absolute dread, it was the third photo which left her completely undone—she reached for her wastebasket and promptly retched into it, her body shaking with fear.

The third was Christopher Strauss, playing his guitar for a group of students as they lounged under a shady tree on his college campus.

_He knows he knows he knows he knows._


	18. Batten Down the Hatches

_ "Hope for the best, prepare for the worst." _

_ ~English Proverb. _

* * *

**May 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

_Erin. Elaine. Breyer. Strauss. Get off this fucking floor and do what needs to be done._

Erin obeyed her inner voice, gripping her desk to pull herself back onto her wobbly feet, taking a deep breath and fighting down another wave of nausea. She was actually surprised at how well her brain continued to function, issuing commands which her numb body followed. She sat down at her desk, made two phone calls, then shakily re-gathered the photos strewn on the floor and exited her office.

Carrington stood, completely shocked by Erin's haggard face, "Erin? Erin, is everything OK?"

"I—I have to—I'll be in the BAU," Erin offered quickly, reshuffling the photos and clutching them to her chest like they were state secrets. "If the director calls back, transfer the call to Agent Hotchner's office."

The receptionist simply nodded, her large eyes filled with fear and concern, but she knew better than to push the subject. She'd never seen Erin Strauss so distraught, and she feared what would happen if she asked any more questions, so she retreated to her desk and watched her boss disappear down the hall.

Erin could move even faster through the maze of hallways without her usual designer heels. She suddenly realized how she must look, but she didn't really care—there were more important things to worry about right now.

She pushed through the glass doors marked  _Behavioral Analysis Unit_ , her breathing becoming uneven again as she approached Agent Hotchner's office.

Alex Blake stopped, the color draining from her face at the sight of Erin's disheveled appearance. Reid noticed her actions and turned to follow her line of sight, his own expression filling with shock as well.

Strauss moved past them, not even noticing the two agents as she hurried into Hotch's office.

"What the hell..." Alex's eyes were still glued to Hotch's door, which was now closed.

"I think we just got our key," Spencer replied, his brows knitting together as he tried to read the body language between his two superiors through the window in Hotch's office.

* * *

"I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have—I touched the photos—I couldn't help it," Erin was bumbling now. She was with Aaron Hotchner (he would know what to do and what to say, he always did, that's why she'd come to trust him so) and suddenly her need to be in-command melted away and her entire body was shaking with the sickening cocktail of fear, nerves, and adrenaline that she hadn't allowed herself to feel until now.

He was using two Kleenex as makeshift gloves, to keep his own prints off as he awkwardly tried to shuffle through the photos. It might have been comical if the situation wasn't so terrifying. She saw his grip reflexively tighten around the photograph of his son, saw his eyes close (just for a second), saw his throat swallow as he tried to control his breathing. At least Erin knew that she wasn't overreacting to this obvious threat.

"No return address?" Hotch guessed, and Erin shook her head quickly.

"It's the same kind of photo paper—the same kind..." she couldn't bring herself to finish, so she forced herself to take another deep breath."I've already made the call—all three boys are being picked up and taken into protective custody right now; they'll be brought back here. It was the safest place I could think of. And the director knows. I just—I'm just not sure what else to do."

"You did good, Erin," he assured her, the relief in his eyes unmistakable. "The boys are safe; that's the most important thing. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to speak to JJ right away."

"Yes, of course, please, go," she was speaking quickly again, clasping and unclasping her hands.

He moved to the door, "Will you assemble the rest of the team in the conference room? As soon as I tell Agent Jareau, we'll join you."

She gave a curt nod, grateful to have some task to perform, something to do, some way to feel like she was helping.

"And Erin?" He turned back to her, his face set in a determined expression as he assured her, "It's going to be alright."

She nodded again, but this time, she wasn't so certain.

* * *

"The photos are our key to understanding the items left at Thomas Yates' old dump sites," Reid pronounced. "I would wager that if we send the boys' fingerprints to the local labs who first inspected the items, we'll find a match."

"He's taunting us," Morgan agreed. "Showing us just how close he can get—not just to us, but to our families."

Hotch and JJ exchanged somber glances. Erin simply stared at the tabletop, looking as if she might toss her cookies (again).

"The dates could have been chosen as part of his message as well—the holidays that fall on these two days could be clues as to what the Replicator's next move is," Reid was on a roll now, gesticulating with his hands as he continued. "Today, the day we received the reminder notice, is Visit Your Relatives Day, a holiday meant to inspire people to reconnect with family members who might not always be in touch. Two weeks from now, if our UNSUB is still operating on the eight-week schedule, possible relevant holidays include Double Dare Day, Flip a Coin Day, and Early Bird Day. On a historical note, both dates are also anniversaries of eruptions of long-dormant volcanoes."

"How the hell are those holidays relevant?" Strauss asked, her soft tone lessening the harshness of her words. She was bravely trying to mask her fear, but her hands were still trembling and her face was still three shades too pale. David gripped the edge of his chair, fighting down the urge to rush over and take the blonde into his arms.

"It depends on what his plans include," Alex spoke up, turning her brown eyes to Erin. "If the Replicator chose these dates as a way to communicate to us, the fact that we received the photos on Visit Your Relatives Day could be his way of saying to spend time with the boys, because soon they'll be gone."

The look on all three parents' faces was painful to see, but Alex pushed forward, "Double Dare Day...maybe he's daring us to try and stop whatever plan he's crafted? Flip a Coin Day implies that there's a choice that must be made. Early Bird Day may mean that if we're quick enough, we'll have a chance to stop something from happening."

She quickly added, "But these are all just suppositions. There's not enough here to truly prove anything—these dates may not have any connection to the holidays. They may only have meaning to our UNSUB—or maybe they don't have meaning at all. The sad truth is, we simply don't know enough about the Replicator to make a definite connection."

These words brought no comfort to the people seated around the table, and David Rossi felt another wave of anger at how helpless he felt. Shifting the focus to more tangible things, he turned to Penelope Garcia, who looked as if she might faint dead-away at any second, "What's the news from the lab?"

"Well, sir, they've only just started analyzing the photos," she spoke quickly. "Of course, there aren't any finger prints, aside from Chief Strauss'. The photo paper is the same kind that our photos were printed on, and most likely taken by the same camera. I'm sorry, I wish I had more."

He checked his watch—it had been less than an hour since Erin had blown through the doors of the BAU, which meant the lab had been in possession of the photos for less than half an hour, and though their lab techs were pretty damn good, they weren't miracle workers. He gave a slight sigh at the realization that it could be hours before they had anything new to share.

Erin Strauss glanced over at Agent Hotchner and Agent Jareau, who seemed to be handling the news so much better than she was—she realized that was because this wasn't the first time that their sons had been in danger, and she did not envy their calmness (it came with a price that Erin didn't want to pay, with a knowledge that Erin never wanted to have).

The speakerphone in the middle of the table buzzed, and Aaron Hotchner reached forward to answer it, "This is Agent Hotchner."

"Agent Hotchner, this is Mullins, at the front desk. The boys are here. They're being taken to the conference room on the fourth floor."

JJ was already on her feet, and with a quick nod from Hotch, she disappeared.

"We'll send the boys' fingerprints to the local labs to compare with what was found on the three items," Hotch spoke quickly, standing as well. "I want all consults, all other tasks and cases put on-hold until we know exactly what's going on here. We'll reconvene in a few hours to debrief on what we've learned so far."

The team was dismissed and Rossi smoothly walked up to Strauss, his hand on the small of her back as he guided her to his office, "C'mon, bella, let's get you somewhere quiet for a minute."

"I have to see Christopher," she said numbly, trying to turn in the other direction, but David's arm easily hooked around her waist, pulling her back. Luckily for Rossi, Erin was still reeling and weak from shock, or else she probably would've caused more of a ruckus. However, her overwhelming fear made her docile and she simply let him steer her into his office, closing the door behind him.

The gentle click of the door shutting sounded like a shotgun blast in the quiet office, and the physical act of partitioning herself off from the rest of the world was all it took for Erin's defenses to crumble. David turned back to her, wordlessly pulling her into his arms, holding her tightly to keep her from shattering into a thousand pieces, because honestly, she looked like she might do just that.

The unspoken worry and love in his embrace was the final straw, and Erin sobbed into his chest, shaking and sick and filled with the deepest, purest dread that she'd ever felt in her life.

"Calmati, bella," he whispered. "I won't let anything happen to him. He's safe here. We're all safe here."

David's words only intensified the sorrow and panic building in her chest.

_He has to know. He has to understand why Christopher is on the list. He has to know. There's no more hiding, no more waiting, no more pushing it away. Tell him, Erin, tell him!_

Erin was learning that the voice in her head wasn't always right—this was neither the time nor the place to confess her darkest sins to David, to unveil her secret crimes against him. And right now, her first priority was walking through the doors of the FBI building for the first time in his life.

She bit back another sob, pulling away from him and wiping away her tears. David watched as Erin slowly transformed into Section Chief Strauss; he could almost physically see the pieces of armor clink into place as her shoulders straightened and her breathing evened out.

"I need to see my son now," she stated, smoothing her hands over her wrinkled linen top, pulling the ponytail from her hair and trying to make herself look a little more presentable. David gave a curt nod, opening his door once more and following her down the steps, his hand gently anchoring to her elbow as they moved through the bullpen.

The mere pressure of his fingers on her flesh gave Erin strength, and she was grateful that he did not relinquish his hold the entire journey. His grip tightened slightly as they approached the closed door of the conference room, and she knew that he wasn't just trying to keep her steady—he was also keeping her from bolting, from running madly into the room and dissolving into another puddle of tears as she held her son. He wasn't just taking care of her—he was taking care of Christopher, too. Chris was already frightened and on-edge due to the shock of being whisked away by Federal Agents, and seeing his mother so completely distraught certainly wouldn't help.

His concern for her son (their son) only added to the lump in her throat and the pounding fear in her stomach, but she forced herself to smile as she whispered, "Thank you."

He seemed to understand all that those two simple words encompassed, because he merely nodded in response.

Hotchner and Jareau were already inside, and Erin's mother-heart felt a pang of nostalgia at the sight of Jennifer Jareau huddled in the corner with Henry perched on her lap, whispering quietly in his ear as he played with the watch on her wrist (how many times had she sat, just like that, holding a much-younger Christopher as they waited in doctors' offices or airports or restaurants?). Her own baby was seated at the conference table, fiddling with his cell phone. He looked up whenever he heard the door open—the relief in his expression was enough to spark tears in Erin's eyes once again.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered as she held him tight.

"No one's told me what's going on," Chris pulled back, his dark eyes searching his mother's face. "Where are Jordan and Anna? Why aren't they here?"

_And so it begins_. Erin blinked back tears, trying to appear calm and brave for her son. "They're safe, darling."

She gently reached forward, almost absentmindedly trying to fix the wayward sprig of hair that never wanted to lay flat, which only made her son look even younger and even more vulnerable. She took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully, "Earlier today, we received an envelope, containing photos of you and these two other boys. We have reason to believe that the person who sent the photos is someone who has been...stalking the BAU for quite some time now."

"But what do we have to do with any of this?" Chris motioned around the room, to Henry and Jack.

"There aren't any rules, where this UNSUB is concerned," Erin felt a small measure of relief in allowing Jordan to read David's books—Chris had overheard enough talk about UNSUBs and M.O.'s and signatures to at least be able to understand what she was saying right now. "He may just be trying to scare us, because we're so close to catching him. We really don't know. We just...we don't want to take any chances."

"But why me? Why weren't there pictures of the girls, too?"

_Oh, David, our son is too much like you, too smart and too curious for his own good_.

"I don't know," she blinked, her throat tightening at the lie. She caressed his young face reassuringly, "You're safe here."

"Does Dad know?"

Those three words fell like a stone in Erin's stomach. "No, not yet. I'm going back up to my office to call him, and your sisters, too. You'll be put in some kind of protective custody, and I'm having your father take Anna and Jordan back up to Somerset, until this whole thing is settled."

"And how long with that be?" The fear in Christopher's voice was unmistakable.

"I don't know," she admitted softly. "I'm so sorry, baby."

"It's not your fault, Mom," he assured her (in his usual, forgiving, c'est-la-vie way that was simply part of his bright and sweet nature, in the way that most reminded her of his true father).

_Oh but it is_ , her inner voice shouted.  _There is a reason that your picture was there, and not your sisters'...there is a reason and it's all your mother's fault_.

She gave him one last hug (reassuring herself that he was here, he was safe, it was truly going to be alright) before hooking her arm through his, "C'mon. You can hang out in my office for the time being."

Jack Hotchner was already tripping down the hall after his father, excited at the prospect of getting to spend the day watching his hero in action. Agent Jareau was on her feet again, hoisting Henry onto her hip with a motherly ease. Part of Erin wished that Chris was still too young to understand what was happening, that she could simply still smile and tell him that everything was alright, and he would believe her, because she was his mother.

_Wish in one hand, spit in the other. See which one fills up faster_. Oddly enough, it was her father's voice echoing through her head this time, repeating one of his favorite quips.

"You look like hell, by the way," her son drolly commented, taking away from the seriousness of the moment.

"Today was supposed to be my day off," she returned with an arch of her brow, as if it were his fault that she was called into the office. He turned back to grab his backpack, checking his phone again before slipping it into his pocket.

"And don't you dare post about this on Facebook," she warned him. Her son merely laughed in response.

David was patiently waiting for them in the hallway, and the three silently walked back to the elevators together, her son and her lover standing on either side of her as they traveled up to her office. She silently wondered if David had begun to ask the same questions as Christopher—why weren't Erin's daughters in the photos, too?

After introducing Chris to Carrington, Erin ushered her son into her office, stepping back outside and pulling David into the secluded hallway.

"I think I can convince the director to let the boys stay here, in custody," she whispered, her breath shaking. "After...after what happened to Haley, I think he'll understand—I think he'll understand why having a few guys sitting outside the house simply isn't enough."

David nodded. She continued, "Once everything is settled, we—we need to talk."

"Ok, bella," he said simply. He tenderly caressed the outline of her face. "Just come find me. I'll be here."

"I think," she swallowed nervously. "I think we shouldn't talk here. We should—we should go back to your place."

She didn't want to leave Christopher, but gods, she couldn't tell David here. She wanted him to be in the comfort of his own home, not confined in a small office where his movements and reactions were watched like a goldfish in a bowl. Her lover was a man of dignity, and he deserved the courtesy of not having to learn such heavy truths in a public setting.

He simply nodded, the corners of his eyes crinkling in confusion at her words. Pushing aside the questions that her behavior had inspired, he pulled her close again, "I've got to get back to the others. But I'm here. You know I'm here."

"I do," she agreed softly, taking a moment to savor the warmth and softness of his mouth with her own. Silently, she wondered if his words would still ring true tomorrow.

* * *

"Paul, it's Erin." She cringed at how stupidly obvious that statement was—he still had her number, he knew it was her the instant he looked at the caller ID on his cell phone.

"Hi," was all he said, and she could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

"Look, I'm sorry to call like this, but I need your help." She bit her lip, glancing around the thankfully-empty hall. Christopher was still in her office, and she didn't want him to witness how awkward things still were between his parents, so she was out here on her cell phone, holding back tears and fighting old fears and praying no one would walk by to witness the train-wreck that was Erin Strauss at the moment.

"What's happened?" The uncertainty was replaced by fear.

"The BAU received a threat today—except the threat wasn't exactly against us." She was getting tired of having to tell this macabre story. "There were photos of Christopher, along with photos of the other agents' sons. We believe the photos were taken by someone who's been stalking the team for the past several months."

"Oh my god, Erin—"

"It's OK, Chris is here, at Quantico with me. He's safe," she spoke quickly, trying to allay Paul's fears. "He's going to be in protective custody until the case is closed."

"What about the girls?"

Gods, that seemed to be the popular question of the day. "They weren't in the photos, so the protective custody doesn't extend to them. But I don't want them in the city. Paul, I need you to take them away. I need you to go to my parents' old house in Somerset and stay there for awhile."

There was a beat, and she knew that his mind was already trying to figure out a way to truly make her request a reality. He didn't complain; he didn't mention the time he'd have to take off work, or how long of a drive it would be, or how it was an inconvenience. He simply did what needed to be done. That was one of the things she'd always liked about him.

"Are you gonna call Jordan, or should I?" He asked.

"I will," Erin felt another ripple of unease pass through her body. Paul might have taken the news with his usual quiet calm, but her high-strung eldest daughter certainly wouldn't.

"How's Chris taking all this?"

Her green eyes flicked back down the hall, to her office door. "He's playing Angry Birds on his phone and cracking jokes."

"In other words, he's scared but he'd rather die than admit it." Paul's tone held the slightest hint of amusement. Erin gave a small hum of agreement, and he added, "He gets that from his mother, you know."

She couldn't help but smile at the assessment. It was true. There was a small pain of nostalgia as Erin realized that to this day, Paul still knew her better than anyone else. They'd known each other for 34 years now, and aside from her parents and siblings, he was the longest relationship in her life.

"And what about you?" Asked the man who'd been a witness to her life ever since the first day of a junior-level political science class all those years ago.

The pragmatic part of Erin's brain said that he shouldn't ask such a question—her emotional welfare was no longer his concern—but the larger part of her heart felt a gentle gratitude for his sense of care. Because, after all, they did still care for one another—how could they not, after all they'd been and done together?

"I'm...I'm not as good at hiding my fear as Chris is," she admitted with a shaky breath. "I never thought that something like this would happen. I still keep hoping to wake up and find that it's all a bad dream."

He made a small sound of agreement. "We'll get through this, Erin. We always do."

_No, we don't. We just pretend to, we just move on and skirt past the darker things and we say we get through, but no, the truth is still dragging around our necks like the mariner's albatross_. _If you even knew exactly what 'this' is, you wouldn't be so sweet and so gentle. You'd run away again, and I wouldn't blame you._

"I know," was all she said.

"Have Jordan call me," he instructed her. "We'll work out travel plans from there. I'll tell Anna."

She nodded, feeling a modicum of relief at the fact that Paul was shouldering this burden with her (although it wasn't his to bear, it wasn't his fault or his past transgressions that led them to this moment). "I'll let you know as soon as I have more information. And Paul?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For not, you know—"

"Erin." He stopped her. "This is our family we're talking about. You don't have to thank me. You know that."

She simply smiled again, "I know."

"And for god's sake, Erin, be careful."

"I will. You, too. Give Anna a big hug for me."

"Do the same for Chris."

"Absolutely." She hung up, taking a deep breath. She and Paul had been a great team, a well-working machine back in their heyday, when they were running around after three bouncing children, and this moment had just reminded her of how easily they'd always fit, how effortlessly they'd always been able to put aside the petty to overcome the serious. There was a warm rush of nostalgia, followed by the bitter aftertaste at the reality of what they'd become. She realized that she actually missed that, missed the feeling of solidarity, the feeling of  _us_ , the team aspect of parenting and marriage.

_Of course, now's the time you pick to get all teary-eyed and sloppy over days gone by_ , she rolled her eyes heavenward. But there was a shadow of a whisper deep within her heart (a flicker of intuition?) that informed her that it wasn't just nostalgia running through her veins—this, too, was a moment that might never exist again between her and Paul, because in a few short hours, she would have to finally tell David Rossi the truth, and telling David had the potential to unravel the rest of her life. It could (would) end her relationship with David, and his knowing the truth could domino over into crushing everything that she'd built with Paul, everything that Christopher ever knew or understood about his world. Erin wasn't sure that those relationships, as deep and as true as they may be, could survive such a harsh blow.

_The truth will set you free_. Free from what? Free to do what? Perhaps Janis Joplin had it right.  _Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose_.

* * *

Four unbelievably short hours later, the team reassembled for a briefing. Spencer Reid's prediction came true—the photos were the key to understanding the gifts left behind at the disposal sites. Now that all three sons were safely installed within the concrete walls of the FBI building at Quantico, their fingerprints had been scanned and sent out to the three local labs that first inspected the items. Sure enough, each lab came back with a positive ID—the soccer ball had Jack Hotchner's prints, the cup had Henry's, and the textbook contained Christopher's. The message was loud and clear:  _Not only can I get close enough to take a photo, I can walk right up and take something from your son's hand._

Derek Morgan's eyes traveled back to the projection screen, where digital copies of the boys' photos were on display. God, he remembered holding Henry when he was first born, remembered how fragile and small the baby was. In the photo, he still looked so small, the top of his head not even reaching his mother's hip as they walked along. And Jack—he remembered when Jack was born, too. Now the kid he affectionately called 'little man' was truly growing up, his face furrowed in concentration as he sprinted across the soccer field in an expression that was remarkably similar to his father's.

He didn't know Strauss' son, but one look at the dark-haired boy in the center of the photograph and he could immediately see the resemblance. And one look at Erin Strauss' pale face informed him that she felt the same terror as Hotch and JJ did at the thought of her child being caught in the Replicator's crosshairs (perhaps even more acutely, because she always seemed more affected by the nature of their job in the first place, less able to handle the unique stressors, to push past the panic to focus on the task ahead).

He gave a frustrated sigh as he sat back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head as his Baby Girl informed the rest of the team of their lack of progress, "I've ran searches on the three dates—the day we received the invisible ink letter, today, and the eight-week mark—against every case we have in the online archives, and so far, there doesn't seem to be anything significant. A couple of arrests, or dates of death, or birthdays, but the people close to those cases are either dead or incarcerated or otherwise unable to pull off something like this."

She clicked the projection screen remote bringing up a new set of images, "However, the lab made a little progress—each photo had a number written on the back, in the upper right corner."

The images were the white backs of the photos, where the spidery script glowed eerily under the UV light— _Option #1, Option #2, Option #3_.

"Written in invisible ink," Alex finished, leaning forward slightly. If anyone had even a shred of doubt about the source or connection between these photos, the invisible note, and the photos left behind by the Replicator, this new development certainly laid that doubt to rest.

"And the ink source was blood plasma, again—the same blood type that was used in the note," Garcia added.

" _Option_  is a very specific term," Alex's voice became soft, almost as if she were talking to herself. "It implies that a choice has to be made."

"If we are still following the theory that the Replicator specifically chose this date, then I would say the best bet is Flip a Coin Day." Reid interjected, and Alex gave a curt nod of agreement. The young doctor continued, "The practice itself goes back to the Roman tradition of flipping a coin to make decisions—Julius Caesar often flipped coins."

"And we see how well that worked out for him," Rossi interrupted dryly, trying to hide his irritation. Normally, he didn't mind Reid's little history lessons and Blake's insights, but Sweet Jesus in shortpants, they didn't have time for that today.

"So you think that the Replicator is going to make us choose between the boys?" Strauss brought them back to the matter at-hand.

"It seems likely, but a bit illogical," Derek folded his arms across his chest. "Flipping a coin only helps decide between two options, and we've got three."

"Actually, it can be done." Of course, Spencer Reid had a solution. He grabbed a piece of paper and a pen to illustrate his point, "If you flip the coin twice, you have four possible outcomes—heads-heads, heads-tails, tails-heads, and tails-tails."

He scribbled  _HH, HT, TH, TT_  on the paper. "Now, each option is assigned an outcome—for example, Jack would be double heads, Christopher would be double tails, and Henry would be mixed. Of course, this means that Henry has a 2-to-1 chance of winning over the other two options. In order to ensure a 1-to-1 probability, a fourth option may be added."

"And what would the fourth option be?" Penelope asked, the heavy weight of dread already settling into her stomach.

"There are two possible choices for the fourth option," Reid took a deep breath. "It could mean that nothing happens and the coin toss starts over...or it could mean that all three options lose."

Strauss blanched, and Penelope instinctively reached over and clasped her hand. Strauss held onto the younger blonde for dear life, because right now, it was the only thing that kept the room from spinning.

"Right now, all this is just a theory," Morgan pointed out, his frustration evident. "We don't have anything solid on this guy or what his true plans are."

"That's how he wants it," Rossi spoke up, his mouth setting in a grim line. "He gives us just enough to make us jump to the worst possible conclusion, stringing us along and feeding off our fear and uncertainty. It's the anticipation that gets him."

"So he's a psychological sadist," Blake surmised, and this earned her a slight nod from the older man. "He doesn't need to physically inflict pain to be fulfilled. The emotional torture is enough for him."

"For now," Hotch added, and the already-high tension in the room rose another notch.

* * *

"I'll be back in a few hours," Erin promised, grabbing her car keys and checking her cell phone again.

"You should probably just go home and get some sleep," Chris replied, rising to his feet and following her out of the office. The director had followed Erin's suggestion of keeping the boys at Quantico, at least overnight, until a full-scale protection detail could be assigned to each one, and he knew that the standard-issue academy cots weren't going to be exactly comfortable, but at least he was young and could handle it. "Nothing's going to happen to us while we're locked away in here."

As they boarded the elevator, his mother cast him a look which succinctly informed him that she would be back in a few hours. No amount of arguing or pleading or irrefutable logic would sway her from staying by her son's side through the night.

"OK," he held up his hands in surrender. "I'll see ya in a few hours."

The elevator dinged and the doors opened on the sixth floor. With one more hug (that lasted just a little longer than usual), Erin let Christopher enter the BAU, where another small conference room had been temporarily converted into their sleeping quarters. The elevator doors closed and she was alone again, taking a shaky breath as she steeled herself for what was to come.

Aside from Aaron Hotchner and Jennifer Jareau, who were both currently ensconced in the conference room with their sons, the rest of the team had gone home for the night. She had a brief vision of David sitting on his porch, Mudgie resting at his feet as he smoked a cigar, a tumbler of whiskey to soothe the jagged edges left by the day's events. It was a warm picture, and she certainly hoped that was exactly what was happening—that he was finding a moment of peace before she entered to completely rip apart everything he knew.

She felt ill again. Deep down, she'd known this day would come, but she'd never imagined it would be like this.

_Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa._


	19. Bite the Bullet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words of dialogue in this first section are not mine. They are the work of Charles Murray, who wrote the particular episode from whence comes this scene (3.6 About Face).

_"Confíteor Deo omnipoténti et vobis, fratres, quia peccávi nimis cogitatióne, verbo, ópere et omissióne: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa."_

_~Confiteor (Ordinary Form of the Roman Rite)._

* * *

**October 2007. Quantico, Virginia.**

There was a beat as David Rossi and Erin Strauss simply sized each other up. It was obvious that she didn't want him to be there—her body language was practically screeching for him to go away. He knew that she'd only called him because the director had insisted; they hadn't spoken since that ugly encounter at Christmas three years ago, and knowing how passive-aggressive Erin Strauss was, she probably would have been content with never seeing or speaking to David Rossi again. Truth be told, he would have been happy with that, too.

She'd given him a cordial greeting whenever she'd opened her office door to find him in the reception area (all for show, he knew, because he knew Erin well enough to detect the iciness beneath her words, the way the light in her eyes switched off whenever she saw his face, like a child dutifully stomaching her vegetables when all she really wanted to do was shriek). However, as soon as the door was closed and the audience disappeared, she became cold and distant, silently motioning for him to sit in the uncomfortable chair in front of her cherry oak desk, with its immaculately arranged trinkets and stacks of paper.

She gave him another long look, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly as she tried to read his face (which was intentionally passive, so that she couldn't read his thoughts or gauge his reaction at all, she knew this, knew he was being obstinate on purpose, and that only encouraged her to be more captious as well).

"I really don't understand this, David." She said, allowing her tone to be gentle (but only slightly), because the statement was true—she didn't understand why he was coming back, didn't understand why they had to be so awkward and cold, didn't understand why he was still punishing her for what happened three years ago, or why he had been so angry with her in the first place, why he'd been upset at her for simply following the rules of their strange relationship.

"What's to understand, Erin?" He said her name so carefully, articulating it as if it were some equally distasteful and explosive thing in his mouth (he used her first name, not her last, denying her the deference of rank, reminding her that at one time, they'd been equals, and he would never see her as anything more than  _Kitten the Analyst_ ).

So that's how he was going to play it. Erin immediately lost her gentle edge. If he was going to act dumb, then she was going to spell it out. "You've been retired for nearly ten years—"

"BAU is a man down; I'm offering to help," he answered succinctly.

She gave a slight nod at this (obviously, they needed the help, or else she wouldn't have been forced to call him in the first place), but she still wasn't ready to welcome him back with open arms, "You've written...how many books? World tours, speaking engagements, big payday private consultations..."

He leaned forward, reaching for something on her desk, and her stomach gave a small flip as her green eyes carefully followed his hand. Luckily, he went for her clock ( _not the photo, don't look at that, don't notice that_ ).

"You've made quite a name for yourself," she finished, feeling a small begrudging sense of pride for the man seated before her. She'd always wanted him to be successful, to be happy, to find something to ease the little hurts that she'd caused him over the years (the agreement, the promotion, the fight at Christmas). The problem was that she wanted him to have all those things  _away from her_.

"Well, this is getting boring," he sighed (his mind going back to the feisty young agent of yesteryear who would never have complimented him like that, who would have made some snarky remark about his failures instead of parroting his success like the  _scores of little cute co-eds singing your praises_  that she used to taunt him about).

"You know, you won't be in charge." She informed him, in her no-nonsense, bureaucratic tone. "Agent Hotchner's the SAC and I'll be seeking his endorsement."

The words had their desired effect, because (as usual), David Rossi bridled at the implication that someone else still had control over his fate, "I'm not looking for anyone's permission here."

"So you're coming in." She leaned forward, her green eyes locked onto his brown ones. "In a  _subordinate_  position."

She emphasized the word  _subordinate_  in the same way he'd pronounced her name—carefully articulated, emphasizing the new difference in their ranks, silently reminding him that the reason he left all those years ago was because she was, in fact, becoming his superior.

"Is that a question?" He challenged, well-aware of her insinuation.

Now, she pounced; now, she stopped pulling punches, "The question is, why?"

"To help," he retorted, the cadence of his tone informing Erin that he was trying to reign in his anger, and she was surprised at the restraint. Perhaps retirement had mellowed him. She also felt a slight wave of disappointment at the fact that he hadn't risen to take her bait—maybe everything truly was broken and over between them. After he'd stormed out of that ballroom three years earlier, she'd known that something had irrevocably changed between them, but she'd held onto the hope that time would heal his wounds and that if they ever met again, perhaps they could at least be civil to one another. Now she realized that she didn't want civility, she wanted the old blood and fire between them, she wanted to know that part of them still worked, even if it was the baser, crueler part.

So she needled him just a little bit further, forcing an amused smile as she added a shade of sarcasm, "A completely selfless act."

"Is that so hard to believe?" He gave a slight sigh, rising to his feet. He felt drained, as if simply being in her presence for just a few minutes had become a taxing effort. He was tired and he wasn't sure why Erin was the one acting so defensively—after all, if either one of them should be angry, it was him. Why was she acting like the woman scorned, when she'd so obviously chosen to cut David from her life?

"Yes." She answered simply, her green eyes meeting his again as she stood. She was waiting, waiting for him to respond, waiting for his rebuttal, for something, anything. He suddenly realized what she was doing—she was intentionally trying to anger him, to elicit some form of the old spark between them. So he said the thing that she would never say, the thing that she was trying to say through her actions.

"I missed you too, Erin."

She didn't smile, but the corners of her eyes mirrored Mona Lisa's as she handed him his newly-reissued credentials. It was almost like a peace offering.

"You'll meet the team tomorrow."

He took the slim leather case and walked out without another word, without another backward glance. She watched him disappear before sitting down again, suddenly deflated and drained. Gods know, they'd had many a row in their day, but nothing had taken such a heavy toll as the strained and restrained silences and glances between them today. Her eyes traveled over to the photo of Christopher, smiling happily back at her.

He'd turned eleven, just four months ago. Last month had marked twelve years since that bad decision in Seattle (she'd never call it a mistake, not when it brought her such a sweet consequence, which filled her life with light and laughter), and though she had seen David many times since then, she'd remained emotionally tethered to that point in their relationship. The instant he'd sat down, his dark eyes scanning the room, never missing any detail, she'd felt her entire body tense up in fear, found her mind praying to every entity she could think of,  _Please don't let him see the resemblance_.

The hidden truth had been literally smiling at his face, and he hadn't noticed. He had probably interpreted her anxiety to the fallout from their last encounter, and though it was partly true, she was glad he didn't realize that the majority of her unease came from a completely different source.

 _Oh, Erin_. She simply shook her head, her chin plopping into her hand.  _You're going to have to be very careful. There's so much to be lost here._

She suddenly needed a drink.

* * *

**May 2013. Rural Virginia.**

Oh, ye gods and little fishes, Erin Strauss needed a drink. She swallowed nervously, her throat suddenly dry and her tongue suddenly two sizes too big for her mouth. Adrenaline and sheer terror had given her a faintly out-of-body sensation as she felt the pulse in her neck pounding all the way to her jaw, as she felt the tremor of her hands as they clutched a stiff manila envelope filled with things that would now belong to David, once she quietly broke his heart.

She took another long breath, trying to steady her nerves, but she could hear her own lungs shuddering, could hear the tears that rippled just below the surface of her entire being, which felt charged with electricity, ready to blow a fuse at any second.

This terror was different than what she'd felt earlier that morning, upon seeing Christopher's image captured by the Replicator—that was something that wasn't her fault, a hurt that she didn't cause, a moment in which she was the victim, not the perpetrator. This was the sad worry of the executioner who would truly raise her axe for the first time, fully equipped with the knowledge that this wasn't war, this wasn't justified, this was an attack on a harmless individual, a cruel and cold reality in which every blow would kill, not just wound.

Her gentle and unsuspecting victim sat across from her, leaning back in his chair as his dark eyes took in every detail of her behavior, her own unease seeping into his body language as well. This was the last moment of innocence between them, the last moment of denial, and suddenly, she thought that he'd never looked so beautiful (yes,  _beautiful_ , an odd description perhaps, but the best description for his regal manner, his easy charm, his piercing eyes and handsome features, his tender trust and selfless concern).

She'd been so stupid, thinking she could avoid this moment. He was too much good, too much for someone with hands as dirtied and imperfect as hers. Hands that shook, clutching to the final clue in this little mystery, the final thread of trust and hope, the bloody evidence of her crime against him, the key to a Pandora's box that would unleash the total destruction of all that they were, all that they had been, all that they would ever be.

Erin's behavior was completely disconcerting to David Rossi. In the almost-thirty years that he'd known the woman, he'd never seen her so close to being completely unhinged—not even during the strange encounter in Seattle, the day her mother died.

Normally, he forgot how much smaller Erin was than he, because her personality seemed to stand seven feet tall, but in this moment, as she sat in his living room, mentally retreating into herself in an oddly protective gesture, he was painfully aware of the delicate set of her shoulders, of the fragile skin on her hands (though he still knew, deep down underneath were bones of solid steel, strength that would always carry Erin Strauss through the rolls and punches of life). He knew that she had every reason to be afraid, with everything that had happened today, but still, it scared him to see her this way.

She seemed to be waiting for something, and the silence was beginning to suffocate him, so David softly asked, "Erin, what is it?"

"I-uh-well, I—there's something I've wanted to tell you, for quite some time now," she found her mental footing, pushing forward with a sudden determination. "And now...now I realize that I can't put it off any longer."

He didn't respond, but she could read his face well enough to know he was filled with both curiosity and dread, like a cat sensing that its next discovery will take away another of its nine lives. She licked her lips, took a deep breath, and pushed onward, "Earlier today, Christopher asked why the Replicator didn't take photos of Anna and Jordan."

It was obvious that David had already asked himself this question as well, because he sat up slightly.

"I told him that I didn't know," Erin set the envelope on her lap, smoothing over its surface with shaking hands. "But that was a lie. I know why. I know why Chris was in the photos, and why the others weren't."

David felt a wave of anxiety pour over him as he asked, "Why?"

"Because..." She took another shaky breath, trying to make herself say the three simple words that would reveal all ( _he's your son_ ), but her body physically froze at the attempt. So she blinked, swallowed, and chose another path, "Because he was born in June of 1994."

David's face skewed in confusion.

"Christopher was born nine months after September of 1993," she said slowly, unable to meet David's gaze as she continued. "Thirty-nine weeks after the weekend in Seattle."

"What are you saying, Erin?" His tone belied his words. David Rossi knew exactly what she was saying.

"I'm saying...there's a reason that he's on the list and the girls are not. There's a reason that he has dark hair and brown eyes and the girls do not." She took another deep breath, forcing her eyes to meet his. "He's your son."

The look of pain and shock his face was enough to slay Erin then and there, but fate was not so kind—no, she would survive to witness every millisecond of the destruction she wrought.

David stared at the woman in front of him, trying to comprehend her words. She was serious, expectantly holding her breath, waiting for his reaction. He could barely breathe, the world seemed to tilt sideways and slowly re-right itself, and she still sat there, completely unaffected.

"But...you said you were on the pill," there was a note of accusation in his tone.

She ducked her head, "And I was...I just, I'd been sick, and I was taking antibiotics for a week before, and I just forgot—I forgot that I was taking them, forgot that they would cancel out the birth control, I just forgot."

"How do you know?"

"What?" She looked up again, confused.

"Well, obviously Paul thought Christopher was his, and I'm sure he would have to have some valid reason for believing it to be so," he felt his anger building at the thought of what she'd done, to him and to her husband. "So how do you know which one of us really is the father?"

"I just do." The simple conviction of her statement would have been enough, had it been anything else, but right now, it wasn't.

"How, Erin?"

"Because." Tears threatened to overcome her, but she quickly stamped them down. "Because I just knew, the moment I found out that I was pregnant. Because he looks like you, because when he was little, he was always—he was—he did things, things that were just  _you_. He furrowed his brow like you when he was concentrating on his coloring book, he was curious and wild and infuriatingly smart and hilarious in ways that only your son could be, he—"

"But there never was a paternity test," David cut her off. He couldn't bear to hear anymore about the second son he'd lost, the one that wasn't taken through the cruelty of death, but through the cold calculation of the woman to whom he'd given his heart.

"No." She admitted, ducking her head again.

"So you don't know for sure." He reiterated, his voice becoming harsher.

"I do. I know." She said quietly.

"No, you don't," his voice rose and she resisted the urge to shrink back. The hurt and the heartache and the pure bewilderment were so strong in his voice, she felt another sob rising in her chest, but she fought it back down again. She would not cry (not here, not now, not in front of him), because she knew what her tears did to him, and she didn't want to manipulate him, didn't want to soften the anger that he so justly deserved to feel. She would be strong and take her penance, she would bear it with the solid determination of a martyr, because although she was neither innocent nor holy, she was going to face her fate and accept whatever David Rossi gave to her. She loved him, and it hurt her to hurt him, but she would gladly bear whatever pain was necessary to heal David's wounds. Let him scream, let him yell, let him bring the whole world crashing on her head, and she would not try to stop it, so long as it eased the suffering of his tender heart, caused by her own hand.

"I am not going to try to offer excuses," she looked down at the envelope in her lap. "What I did was...I had my reasons, but they will never be enough for you, I know that."

She still couldn't admit that what she'd done was wrong. The realization filled David's heart with a dark anger. This woman,  _his bella_ , had she always been this calloused, this self-righteously unjust, this cruel, this dark and capable of such deception? Had he truly been so blinded, so fooled by her innocent gestures and airy smiles and fragile uncertainties? Had it all been some sick game, some coy plot to distract him from the truth that she'd always been hiding such a dark secret from him?

"I hope that, one day, you can understand that I never wanted to hurt you," she continued softly. "It was...I've done the unforgivable, and I'm not asking for your forgiveness, because—"

"Because you're not truly sorry." His cold words stopped her. She looked up, steeling herself for the next blow. His whole body was radiating with a righteous anger. "You're just sorry that you got caught."

"David, I—"

"Please leave."

There it was. The moment of finality, the last toll of the bell, the final breath of whatever they'd become. His mouth (that mouth which held fire and blood and passion, which had captured her own so many times, which had stopped her mind and opened her heart) had pronounced the two words that killed any small shred of hope that may have still survived within her soul.

She ducked her head again, silently acquiescing to his edict. She smoothed the manila envelope again before rising to her feet. She set the package on the coffee table. "This is—this is yours now."

He didn't respond. He was sitting rigidly, his gaze fixed across the room. He had nothing left to say. More than anything, she wanted to take him in her arms, to let him unleash the tears that she knew were just underneath his cold exterior, but she didn't deserve to be the one who comforted him, not anymore.

She went to the door, turning to look back at the man who sat alone in this grand house, surrounded by finery and fancy things, whose heart was now a thousand pieces, shattered by the hand of the one woman who was his greatest weakness, his trusted confidant, his sweet Judas.

_Look at him. Look at what you've done. Look and see and know. That is what you truly are, Erin Strauss. The monster who destroyed David Rossi. The one who broke a beautiful man, because you were too foolish, too scared, too selfish. This is your doing, your great masterpiece. Don't look away now._

She quietly shut the door, taking a moment to gently pat Mudgie's head as the dog sadly looked up at her, as if he could sense his master's distress. From within the house, she heard the muffled sound of David weeping. The shreds of her tattered heart seemed beyond breaking anymore, but they shriveled and evaporated, blowing away like smoke on the wind as her knees buckled under the weight of the knowledge that she was the source of such deep sorrow. Erin gripped the door frame, mentally regathering her physical strength and standing straight once more. Mudgie gave a small whine at the sound of David's distress, so she quietly opened the door again, letting the dog enter the house. Perhaps he could provide some measure of comfort, or at least more than Erin could.

She didn't belong here anymore, didn't belong anywhere near what was left of her lover, the man who'd taken her to places that she'd never dared to imagine, who'd filled her lungs with fire, and who'd stirred her soul in ways that no one else could. She'd killed one of the most beautiful things that she'd ever witnessed, and somehow, she was supposed to be content in the knowledge that it was the right thing.

Her greatest amend had been made. And yet, there was no feeling of accomplishment, no feeling of relief, no twelve-step chant to make it all seem alright. Perhaps that was because it was only the beginning of the rest of her life, the beginning of a long, cold, desolate atonement. Perhaps because she knew that her confession would never fully outweigh the sin itself, and she would forever be separated from a man whom she believed in with the fervor of a religious zealot.

Now David Rossi truly knew every side of her. And now he could no longer love her, because he saw her as she really was.

Divine justice was always so harshly fair.

* * *

_"I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have greatly sinned, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault."_

_~ Confiteor (Ordinary Form of the Roman Rite)._


	20. Retrospect

_ "Hindsight is 20/20." _

_ ~Modern American Proverb. _

* * *

**April 1998. Quantico, Virginia.**

David Rossi gave a small sigh of satisfaction as he boarded the elevators, leaving the basement offices of the BAU to return to the land of the living. He'd just unpacked his last box of files and office memorabilia, signaling that he was officially "back home" at Quantico, after almost eight years of bouncing around to other field offices. So much had changed, so much had stayed the same.

The elevator doors opened and he exited, making his way through the main entrance and out to his car. He noticed someone walking across the asphalt lot, and he stopped when he realized who it was. Erin Strauss, looking like a million bucks in her oversized dark shades and her pencil skirt (since when did she wear skirts? Erin had always been the kid in the loose slacks or faded jeans, almost hyper-masculine in her attire, and suddenly, here she was, looking like she'd walked straight out of  _Vogue_ ). Her heels were completely impractical for field work, which must have meant that she'd gone back to being a full-time analyst. Her long blonde locks had been replaced by a non-nonsense bob, her hair was a shade or two darker (more brunette, more "sensible" and serious), and she was even wearing lipstick (red, no less).

Apparently a lot had changed over the past five years. He remembered Don Adams' words from over a decade ago— _she's a fast-tracker_. He'd noticed it before, but now it was a different kind of vibe. Before, she'd been almost childish in her pursuit of perfection, in her attempts to always be the best and the brightest, in her need to be loved and adored, in her obsessive overachievement, in her near-manic need to be taken seriously. Now, she was still obviously an overachiever (some things could never change, and that was too firmly rooted in her personality), a golden-child-to-be, but there was a new confidence, a sense of assurance to her gait which lent her frame a more graceful air. She didn't need to be taken seriously, because she took herself seriously, she commanded respect rather than demanding it. Erin Strauss had finally, truly come into her own at the Bureau.

She recognized him as well, because she stopped for a full beat, the surprise evident in her face, though it was half-hidden by her shades.

Erin Strauss felt her stomach clench in fear and uncertainty at the sight of David Rossi. The last time that she had seen David, he was lying in a hotel bed in Seattle, grinning devilishly at her. Then he'd disappeared as soon as her back was turned. Truly, it wasn't his departure that had created this visceral reaction in her, but rather what he'd left behind—a small piece of himself that had grown inside of her, entering the world nine months later in the form of a beautiful baby boy.

That beautiful baby boy was approaching his fourth birthday, and Erin had been content in the fact that she'd never see his real father again.

And yet here he was, wearing that same grin as he walked up to her, "Hey there, kitten."

The warm affection in his voice was unmistakable, and it was enough to melt Erin's knees. How did he do that—how did he sap every ounce of strength from her body with a grin and a greeting?

"Hey there, Dave-O," she forced herself to grin, swallowing the fear and something else that rose in her chest, her skin fluttering with that old familiar tingling that always appeared whenever he approached her.

"You look good, Erin," his eyes traveled her form with a sense of appreciation that she hadn't seen in years. That look used to make her flush in the most pleasant of ways, but now it just filled her with guilt ( _don't you know what happened the last time you looked at me that way?_ ).

"I didn't know you were back," she easily ignored the compliment, steering the subject to safer ground.

"Just unpacked the last box," he admitted. He could sense a strange anxiety radiating from Erin's pores, and he wondered what he'd done to make her so skittish (sure, he'd left the hotel without saying goodbye that morning, but that was years ago, and really, surely she'd understood why…. _a fling's a fling, right?_ ).

"So, you got the spot in ViCAP," he guessed, motioning to her wardrobe.

"Yes, yes I did," she answered quickly, giving an almost-shy smile that reminded him of the younger version of herself, the one he remembered and found endearing. Then she gave a nod towards the building, "Speaking of, I've got to get back to work. It was nice seeing you, David."

She offered one last smile (flat, without warmth, didn't reach her eyes), ducked her head and clipped away in her high heels.

_Nice seeing you, David_. What the hell had he done to make her treat him like a passing acquaintance, like some old high school classmate, whom you had nothing in common with anymore, but whom you politely suffered because at one time, you shared a few laughs? Their strange and twisting relationship had taken many turns over the past thirteen years, but she'd never been so impersonal, not even when she was pissed as hell at him. Five years ago, she would have greeted him with a true, deep smile, she would have hugged him before she walked away, she wouldn't have shifted away when he came closer, wouldn't have bit her lip nervously as if she feared what he might do.

David wasn't exactly sure what he'd expected from her, after five years of separation and silence. He wasn't sure what she expected from him, either. But he knew he didn't want this, whatever it was.

He gave an exasperated chuckle at the realization that, once again, Erin Strauss had not reacted in the way that he'd expected her to. And once again, he was left confused and conflicted by a simple interaction with the blonde sphinx. So much had changed, so much had stayed the same.

* * *

**May 2013. Rural Virginia.**

There were different levels of knowing, David suddenly realized with stunning clarity.

He'd known, the first time that he'd lain with Erin, that what they were doing was wrong—they were both married at the time, and there was no two ways about the fact that they'd been unfaithful, that they'd broken vows made before God, to people they loved. He'd never confessed those dark sins to his priest, because he was self-aware enough to know that if the temptation presented itself again, he'd take it. It's not true repentance if you aren't truly regretful of your actions, and certainly not if you know that you won't even  _try_  to resist it again.

He'd known that she had a husband, her college sweetheart, who seemed by all accounts a nice guy. Even the later times, when he'd been divorced or separated or single, he'd still known that she was still very much married, and that had never stopped him from falling into her arms without the slightest hesitation.

He'd known, but he hadn't  _known_. That was why he'd been so angry at her nine years ago, at the Christmas ball, when he'd met Paul Strauss for the first time—because he went from knowing to  _knowing_ , he'd always known about Paul, but now he knew him, knew what his voice sounded like, knew his sense of humor and his cologne, knew how easily he moved around Erin, knew what it was like to see Paul's hands on Erin's skin, knew he was a good man who loved Erin and whom Erin loved in return, and that suddenly added weight and resonance to exactly what they'd done.

The next time he was with Erin, she'd left Paul, and she was free—for the first time ever, they were both free, and it was a beautiful thing. The guilt of knowing was gone.

But there were still deeper levels of knowing. He'd always known that after they'd spent a few glorious hours together, Erin had returned back to her husband, back to her perfect slice of Americana, and deep down, he'd also known that she'd continued making love with Paul, raising a family with him and doing all the things that spouses tend to do. He didn't really spend a lot of time thinking about it, and it had never really bothered him, because after all, he'd done the same thing, returning to his wife, or to a girlfriend, or simply picking up a cute chick at a book signing. It was fair, and it was what they'd agreed to, and it didn't really matter. But now it did matter. It mattered very much.

It mattered because now, he truly  _knew_  what it meant. It meant that Erin taken him in, so sweetly and passionately, and then returned to her husband with the same ardor and affection, all the while carrying evidence of her tryst with David, allowing Paul to think that he was the only possible father of her son. She'd named the child after Paul, had let him spend many sleepless nights crooning and worrying over the infant, had let him teach Christopher how to throw a baseball or how to set up a tent, had lured him into a false sense of security and pride in the son that wasn't really his. It meant that Erin had built the palace of her life on a foundation of lies, that she'd smiled in the face of both men, had taken both their beating hearts in her cold hands and manipulated them into believing that what they didn't know, didn't exist. It meant that she'd lulled them into a false sense of security, with the willful cunning and true knowledge of a predator laying a trap for her unsuspecting prey. It meant that the past two decades had simply been part of some intricate charade, a distraction from the truth. It meant that everything between them had been a smaller part of a greater lie (even the tender parts, even the beautiful parts, even the loving parts).

And now, he truly understood every interaction between them after that fateful night in Seattle—his mind replayed every single moment that he could remember from the last twenty years, little gestures and odd behaviors and nuances of their relationship suddenly making perfect sense. That was why she'd acted so strangely, when he'd transferred back to Quantico. That was why she'd been so mournful during their fight over her promotion. That was why she'd asked him to make her forget, the second time in Seattle, after her mother's death.  _The same room. She booked the same room. That wasn't a coincidence by a long shot._

If it hadn't been for the Replicator, she would have never told him. David was certain of that. She had twenty fucking years to say something, and she chose now—now, when Christopher's life was in danger, when he'd been drawn into this elaborate, twisted game?

Christopher.

The mere thought of his son's name ( _his_  son!) was enough to stop David's heart in his chest. Erin had known the whole time, had even let them meet each other—how quietly she'd watched the two talk as they grilled in her backyard, how she'd laughed at their jokes together over lunch, how she'd been perfectly content to let them live on in complete ignorance to their true connection. It was so  _willful_ , so  _knowing_. That was the most painful part.

She'd stolen so much from him—so many memories, so many chances, so many moments. And why? Because she feared disrupting her perfect little life. Because she wanted to have her cake and eat it, too. Because she had obviously never loved David, not truly, not in the way that mattered most.

Even in his anger and self-pity, David Rossi knew that was untrue. Erin was many things (most of them unfavorable right now), but most importantly, she was a woman who was fiercely devoted and protective of her children. Whatever her reasons for hiding the truth, whatever her excuses, whatever her motivation for finally coming clean, they all revolved around her children. He knew that. And whatever pain that she'd caused, whatever wounds she'd inflicted on David's soul, she had done it with reluctance, with fearful hesitancy, because she loved him. He knew that, too.

He wished he didn't. He wanted to be furious with her, wanted to hate her, wanted to be able to completely obliterate any sense of sympathy or empathy for the blonde, wanted to be the one who was right, wanted her to be the one who was wrong, and yet….and yet.

Ignorance truly was bliss. It would be so much easier if he didn't understand her reasoning, on some level. Then he could simply hate her. It would be so much easier if he could hate her. Then the pain wouldn't be so deep. But the truth of the matter was the aching opposite of easy: he didn't hate her, and the pain was all the deeper because of it.

_Damn you, Erin. Damn you for making me love you. Damn you to hell._

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia.**

Blood. That was surprising. Erin dabbed her nose again, creating more red stains on the tissue. She glanced up at her haggard reflection—her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, and what was left of her mascara had traveled into the now-deep grooves under her eyes.

She turned on the sink and began to wash her face, suddenly clutching the edges of the sink as another wave of nausea rolled from her stomach to her brain. Gods, she hated being sick. She especially hated being sick in public settings, like her current location, the sixth floor women's bathroom down the hall from the BAU. Ever since she'd left David's house, she'd been ill, vomiting even though there was nothing left in her stomach, and now her heaving had apparently been violent enough to burst a blood vessel in her nose. Her diaphragm hurt from the constant strain, her legs were weak and wobbly, and her pounding headache was now heading into the fifth consecutive hour of constant throbbing. Her mind couldn't handle the stress anymore, and it was seeping into her body, manifesting itself in painfully physical ways.

She'd known, with frightful clarity, that telling David was only the beginning. Now that he knew the truth, he had the power to destroy everything else—he could tell Paul, he could tell Christopher, he could tell Anna and Jordan, he could shatter what was left of her life and the other people whom she loved. The night had seemed eternal as her mind constantly looped possible scenarios—each outcome more debilitating than the last. She would end up alienated from everything and everyone she knew and loved. She would end up alone, utterly alone, cast into a dark, cold place away from the sunshine of her children's love, from Paul's gentle compassion, from David's touch of life, from every chance of happiness or redemption of any form.

Now she truly understood why some convicted felons welcomed their executions. The anticipation and dread made one feel like walking death, and at least actual death was swifter and less painful, in some ways.

She didn't have the right to ask David not to tell Paul or Christopher. She couldn't ask him to pretend as if nothing had happened (not anymore, not this time, things were forever changed in that respect), and honestly, she couldn't fault him for wanting to claim his own son.

She blotted her face dry with the rough paper towels, cringing as she thought about the effects on her skin. She glanced at her watch, grimacing at the time. She needed to go back upstairs to her office, to put on her makeup and the clothes that she'd brought back with her. With another grimace, she lightly raked her fingers through her hair, trying to make it look semi-presentable. She had a hair clip in her bag upstairs as well; she'd definitely have to pin her hair up to avoid looking like she'd just walked out of a scene from  _Les Misérables_.

The bathroom door opened and Jennifer Jareau appeared, looking as beat-up as Erin felt. Her husband had joined them last evening, and she knew that the two had not been getting along well—Will was using this as another example for why JJ should leave the FBI. Erin remembered similar conversations with Paul whenever Chris and Jordan were Henry's age (by the time Anna was born, Paul had realized that it was futile, and had stopped pushing for her to pull back from her work), and she felt a pang of sympathy for the younger woman. As if the stress and fear of having your child targeted by a serial killer wasn't enough.

One of the sad truths that Erin had learned over the years was that stress and tragedy rarely actually brought people together—more often than not, it tore them apart. She hoped that didn't happen to JJ and Will.

Agent Jareau plopped her go-bag onto the floor beside the sink, making a face as she took in her appearance.

"Hotch says the director is assigning a full-complement protective detail for each of the boys today," the younger woman announced, after a beat of silence.

Erin nodded slowly. She didn't want to think ahead, didn't want to think about today, because today would be the first day of the rest of her life without David Rossi, the first day of learning how not to look at him, of figuring out how to not to ache whenever he was near, of pretending that nothing had happened.

She felt ill again, leaning forward as she swooned with nausea once more.

"Are you alright?" JJ was suddenly at her side, her hand gently holding Erin's elbow (just like David had done, less than a day ago), her face filled with concern.

"I'm not feeling well," Erin admitted, too tired to care about how weak she must look.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" JJ's voice was soft, knowing.

Erin shook her head and JJ's hand traveled upward, gently rubbing the woman's back in a comforting gesture.

"I didn't, either," the younger woman admitted, and somehow, the confession served as a moment of camaraderie between the two. For several moments, neither one spoke as JJ continued her motions and Erin silently accepted her comfort.

"I don't know how to do this," Erin broke the silence, her green eyes staring blankly down at the sink.

"No one does, really," JJ replied quietly. "You just do it. Because there isn't really an alternative."

Erin seemed to understand, because she gave a small nod. JJ offered a hopeful smile as she added, "Besides, you've got Dave to help you through it. He's a good man; he'll do whatever it takes—"

She was interrupted by a sharp sob from the older woman, who clamped her hand over her mouth, trying to hold back another flood of tears as her body shuddered with unvoiced wails of sorrow.

JJ stood there, absolutely thunderstruck. She could almost physically feel the energy in the room shift as Erin Strauss seemed to pull entirely into her own self, shuttering away from the rest of the world, taking all the air and the tears and trapping them inside her lungs.

She didn't know whether to comfort Erin or to leave her alone—she didn't want to make things worse by doing something to push Strauss over the edge, but she couldn't let her simply cry without offering some kind of solace. Risking reprimand and possible bodily harm, JJ chose to go for comfort. She stood at Erin's side, wrapping her arms around the older woman in an awkward hug. She didn't try to quieten her, or tell her that everything would be OK, or soothe away her tears in any way. She simply held her until the tears subsided.

Jennifer Jareau was struck by  _how_ Erin Strauss wept—she was  _weeping_ , not crying, in deep, sorrowful sobs that one usually only experienced during times of purest grief, at the loss of loved ones, at tragedy. These tears were not shed in fear of what may come. They were shed in mourning for what was lost.

There was more to this than met the eye. JJ felt a tremor of intuition—it had to involve David's relationship with Strauss—and she prayed that she was wrong. Deep down, she knew she wasn't. She thought back to the previous day, and how the two had acted around each other—Rossi had been gentle and caring, and Strauss seemed to rely on his support. After the second briefing, she'd seen them in his office, their chairs pulled so close that their knees were touching, their hands quietly and lovingly intertwining as they spoke in hushed tones, physically and verbally reassuring each other that everything was OK. Erin had been trembling and nervous, but JJ had chalked it up to the sheer terror inspired by finding the photos.

Something had happened in the past twelve hours. Something very, very bad and very powerful, to reduce the hardest ass in the Bureau into the unrecognizable person weeping in JJ's arms.

Erin was past the point of caring—she simply sagged into the younger woman's embrace, letting the poisonous feelings tumble out of her body. She never should have done this, never should have let things get so beautiful and wonderful between her and David, never should have told him the truth, never should have let him follow her into her room that fateful night twenty years ago, never should have put her heart in such a position to be completely obliterated. Never, never, never.

* * *

**Rural Virginia.**

The sun was rising, and David felt the weight of reality pressing on his chest once more. He was going to have to walk into that building and pretend as if nothing was wrong. He was going to have to spend the entire day near Erin Strauss, near their son. It would be one of the most painful things he'd ever done (almost as painful as watching that impossibly small coffin sink into the ground all those years ago, strangely similarly painful to holding Carolyn in his arms as her spirit left her body, more painful than the quiet moments spent in strangers' homes, notifying them of their loss), and yet, he would do it. He would do it, because regardless of how he felt about Erin, their son needed them.

Their son. What a strange and painful concept.

He was standing in the foyer, his keys in his hand as he stared into the living room, where the manila envelope still rested on the coffee table.

_This is yours now_.

He still hadn't opened it. He wasn't ready to face whatever further truths the seemingly harmless envelope contained. Part of him realized that he would never be ready, but he certainly wasn't able to handle it today. Today, he simply needed to survive. With a heavy sigh, he tore his gaze away from the envelope and walked out into the cool, calm morning.

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia.**

Spencer Reid felt like he was in a horror film—he could hear the ominous approach of footsteps, the pace increasing as the sound came closer, echoing eerily in the halls, which were practically empty at this early hour.

More out of curiosity than fear, he turned around. He was immediately greeted by a warm smile and green eyes that seemed oddly familiar.

"Could you point me in the direction of the Behavioral Analysis Unit?"

He motioned in the direction that he was walking. "Straight ahead. Perhaps I could help you?"

Those green eyes quickly appraised him before stating, "You must be Dr. Spencer Reid."

The owner of those green eyes was at least nine inches shorter than he was, with blazing red hair and tattoos and an amused smile.

"I am. How did you know?"

"You're exactly as David described you," she answered simply, offering a hand. "Jordan Strauss."

He took a moment to look at the proffered hand, whose wrist bore Hebrew script, "I don't really do—"

"Oh, not a problem," she quickly retracted her hand with a slight shrug. "My boss is the same way. Would you mind showing me where—"

"Yeah, it's right this way," he started walking again, and she fell into sync with him. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye again, trying to piece together this new mystery that had appeared.

Strauss. So this had to be Erin's eldest daughter, though with her new hair color and slightly smudged dark makeup (it looked as if she was wearing last night's eye shadow), she didn't resemble the fresh-faced young girl from Erin's framed photos that Spencer had seen almost a decade ago when he'd first come to the BAU. She was wearing a fitted t-shirt, adorned with a studded and bejeweled outline of Bellatrix LeStrange, with a charcoal pencil skirt and sensible pumps. She had a tattoo of an ouroboros on her left foot, with Hebrew on her left wrist and another language (perhaps an African dialect?) on her right. Around her neck was a saint's pendant (maybe St. Bede?), a star of David, the Hand of Fatima, and some kind of unhewn stone. She carried a big distressed leather purse, also studded, and a black duffel bag. She was the walking epitome of their generation—contradictions and eccentricities, childish surrealism laced into the corset of adult pragmatism, self-assured and self-conscious at the same time, precariously perched on the brink between naiveté and cynicism.

The epitome didn't speak the rest of the journey, but the silence seemed comfortable, so Reid didn't try to force awkward small talk—in fact, he was grateful that he didn't have to.

Chief Strauss was already in the bullpen, and she looked like she'd been through absolute hell. Reid heard a small mew of surprise from the young woman beside him as she bolted towards her mother.

As the eldest daughter of an eldest daughter, Jordan Elaine Strauss was genetically predisposed to be two things: a fixer and a nurturer. When she saw her mother's face, everything within her cried out to make everything better, even though she didn't know how.

She pulled her mother into an embrace, squeezing her tightly. This time, Erin didn't cry (she never did, not in front of her kids, she never knew why, though), she simply took a deep breath and accepted her daughter's affection.

After a beat, she spoke, "You're supposed to be in Somerset by now."

"I was going to…but about an hour out of the city, I turned back around," her daughter confessed, stepping back to grab the duffel bag again. "I went to Chris' place and got his things. He text me and told me what he needed."

At that moment, Chris appeared in the doorway. "Bout time you got here, Dannie."

"You knew that she was coming back here, and you didn't think I should know?" Erin turned to her son.

"We knew you'd flip if you found out," Jordan answered quickly. She gave a helpless gesture, "I couldn't let you face this alone, Mom."

"Does it look like I'm alone?" She motioned to the entire BAU suite.

Jordan gave her a slightly admonishing look, "You know what I mean."

"How did you even get in the building?"

"Carrington cleared everything for me."

Erin Strauss made a mental note to give her receptionist a right royal ass chewing the next time that she saw her.

Her daughter seemed to read her mind, because she lightly placed her hands on Erin's shoulder as she said quietly, "Look, I'm just here until Chris' detail shows up. Then we'll both go back to your place—since I highly doubt you're going to let him go back to his dorm room—and we'll spend the rest of the day watching People's Court and I'll kick his ass in a game of pool—"

"Yeah right," Chris huffed. "I could beat you with one hand tied behind my back."

Jordan ignored his comment, offering her mother a reassuring smile. "It's gonna be OK. Dad and Anna are safe in Massachusetts, me and Chris are safe here. If I'm with him, I'll be surrounded by the Bureau's own goon squad. It's gonna be fine; I promise."

Erin knew her daughter too well—she knew that Jordan had come back, because like Erin, she was driven by this neurotic belief that by simply being with Christopher, she could protect him from all harm. It was the maternal instinct of elder sisters that Erin understood, because she'd felt it towards her own three younger siblings long before she'd had children of her own. And she had a point—as long as she was with her brother, she would be benefiting from his protective detail as well. Apparently, Christopher had kept his sister updated on current events, since she knew that he was being released later that morning. The detail was supposed to stay inside Erin's house, with her son at all times, and though it didn't remove all fear from her mind, she knew it was the most logical accommodation, since no one had the slightest clue how long the Replicator would remain at-large.

"I'm going up to my office to change." She announced. Jordan simply nodded, tossing the duffel bag to her brother and following him into the small conference room.

Spencer Reid was at his desk, but he was still observing the scene unfolding before him. The section chief turned and gave him a dark look, and he slowly turned his chair away, shuffling through the papers on his desk. Fighting back a slight wave of satisfaction at the fact that her Ice Queen powers were still intact, Erin headed back to her office.

The lights were still out in the reception area—it would be another hour before Carrington showed up, and boy, was Erin going to make her regret coming into work today—and Erin breezed back into her office, not even bothering to turn on any lights, since the sickly grey light of day was already filling the office. She grabbed the dress and matching jacket that were hanging on the back of her door and turned to get dressed.

Fatigue suddenly hit her like a semi-truck, and the little black couch in the corner of her office was practically singing a siren song to her worn and weary body. She tossed the clothing into the chair in front of her desk, slowly climbing onto the couch. She hadn't slept at all last night, sick from her confession, filled with fear—she'd simply watched Christopher as he slept, her heart breaking over and over again at how young and innocent he seemed, how much like his father, how he was just another victim in the shipwreck of her life. But now, the darkness of night had passed, the office was quiet and the couch was comfortable and her limbs had stopped shaking and her tiredness overcame her nausea and all she wanted to do was close her eyes, just for a few moments.

Her bones seemed to melt into the soft cushions, her whole body relishing the feeling as she curled into a ball, her head nestling into the arm rest.

Something pricked her senses—a dark, warm scent. The smell of David, from the time he'd lain here, in her arms, the night that she truly felt like he let her in, the night she truly got to prove that she could be what he needed, that she could help him heal, the beautifully peaceful night that they'd truly become something more.

She turned her face into the dark leather, trying to recapture the feeling of love and security which that scent once held for her. But now there was a dull, empty ache, the desolate knowledge that what had been would never be again. Her body shuddered with silent sobs as the tears came once more, washing away the remnants of the aroma, the last testament to the little golden moment that had been born here, and she found it fitting—destroying every last bit of the good that remained.


	21. Siege

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last full chapter I'd written before the season eight finale...although, actually, it didn't change my original ending, so there's a silver lining amidst it all, I suppose. I'll stay true to CM canon, but I've got a few more stories to tell within this story before we wrap this thing up...just hang with me, mkay?

_"The question has been silently asked and silently answered, it seems. They are both afflicted and blessed, full of shared secrets, striving every moment. They are both impersonating someone. They are weary and beleaguered; they have taken on such enormous work."_

_~Michael Cunningham, The Hours._

* * *

**May 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

The Behavioral Analysis Unit was filled with laughter. David Rossi frowned slightly at the sound, wondering if he'd somehow slipped into a parallel universe. Then he heard it—two distinct voices, working together to weave some fantastical tale.

Jordan and Christopher were in the bullpen, their storytelling antics amusing Garcia and Morgan. Blake was simply shaking her head with a dry smile, and even though Reid was at his desk, Rossi could tell that he was listening as well.

The sound of Christopher's voice created a physical pain in David Rossi, and he fought every urge to turn around, walk back to his car, and drive as far away as possible. With a deep breath, he pushed through the glass doors, trying to look nonchalant.

The two bright and eager youths spotted him immediately.

"David!" The joy in Jordan's voice was unmistakable. As usual, Christopher was more reserved, but he still smiled warmly at the older man. That simple smile was enough to break David's heart.

Fortunately, David Rossi had many years' worth of practice in hiding his grief, and he forced a smile, hugging the young woman who practically bounded up to him. Christopher didn't get up from his chair, and David was grateful for that—if he actually embraced his long-lost son, he might break down into tears then and there.

"Mom went up to her office to change," Jordan informed him, unknowingly causing another pin-prick in his heart. "We're just waiting for the protective details to show up, so we can go back to Mom's house."

"Aren't you supposed to be out of the state?" He changed the subject, not wanting his sorrow to show.

She gave a sheepish smile. "I am. I just—I couldn't leave my baby brother to the wolves."

The honest affection in her voice was another blow. God, these children. Their painful innocence would be the death of him.

David quickly made his excuses, assuring them that he would say goodbye before they left as he retreated to his office. He closed the door behind him, slumping against the heavy metal door as his entire body felt the relief of being away from prying eyes.

After a few deep breaths, he moved to his desk, angling his chair so that he could look out into the bullpen, pretending to read over a file while his eyes followed the young man who suddenly seemed to bear such a striking resemblance that David wondered how he hadn't noticed it before. Deep down, he knew the answer—people didn't look for things like that when they didn't believe them to be possible.

Now, he knew it was not only possible, but an actual reality, and now, the truth was as plain as day. His chin, his nose, the amused arch of his brow, those all came from Erin, but there were other things, smaller, less discernible things, which had the distinct stamp of David Rossi. The way Christopher, despite his gregariousness and warmth, still seemed distant, almost aloof, even as he told jokes to the other agents. The easiness of his laughter, the color of his eyes, the shade of his skin, the frankness of his speech.

_He did things, things that were just you._

The sound of Erin's voice in his head was another source of sorrow, just another phantom of something that never was.

He watched the way Erin's two children interacted—the way Jordan stood next to Chris' chair, her hand lightly resting on the back, almost protectively, reassuringly (letting him know that she was still there, letting herself know that he was still safe), the simple easy camaraderie that only siblings could share, the way they chose laughter instead of fear, the youthful belief that no real harm could ever come to them.

Again, he felt a prick of understanding—Erin had wanted to preserve  _this_ , this sweet happiness between her children, this blissful ignorance that they shared with the rest of her family, the rest of the world. Twelve short hours ago, he'd shared in that oblivion, and part of him actually wished he still did.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp rap on his door, which opened to reveal the haggard face of Aaron Hotchner.

"Been here long?" The younger man asked softly.

"Just sat down."

Hotch, with his strange politesse, wouldn't actually enter David's office until he was invited to do so. Rossi motioned to the chair across from him. "Wanna join?"

With a grateful nod, Aaron closed the door behind him, sitting down with a heavy sigh. He usually wasn't the type to chit-chat, or to discuss his emotions in any scope during work hours, but the older man could tell that Aaron Hotchner was in desperate need of two things—a friend and a patient ear. Truth be told, David was in desperate need of those two things as well, but he was far from ready to talk about his own problems at the moment.

"No new developments?" David guessed, and Aaron simply shook his head.

"Strauss is meeting with the director right now, to finalize the details on protective custody," Hotch's eyes remained trained on the older man, looking for any clues. JJ had already quietly informed him that there might be some storm brewing between Rossi and Strauss (she didn't tell him everything, couldn't bring herself to mention Erin's tears, or how absolutely shattered the woman seemed), and that truly was the last thing that this case needed.

However, Dave simply nodded. "So...Haley's sister is coming in to keep Jack?"

"For the time being," Aaron ducked his head. He quietly added, "I want to ask Beth to come back, to stay with Jack...because I know that it will mean that she'll be safe as well. I don't think...I don't think I could go through that again."

David didn't ask what  _that_  was. He knew. And he understood. After Carolyn's death, David thought he couldn't ever survive a loss as deep as that again. Sadly, it seemed that recent events were going to test that theory.

"Do you think she'll be able to leave New York?" David asked gently. Aaron gave a slight shrug, and the simple gesture spoke volumes—he wasn't sure that he had the right to ask her. "If you're worried about her, then tell her, Aaron. She knows what you've been through; she'll understand."

David felt his throat tightening at his own words. Really, he wasn't the one to give relationship advice, especially when every word out of his mouth only deepened the sense of loss and sorrow building in his chest.

There was another giggle from Penelope Garcia, which drew David's attention back out to the bullpen. It was always a strange thing, that humans could always find ways to laugh amidst times of darkness and fear. It was part of their strength, part of their healing resiliency, part of the mystery of humanity. He took a moment to observe the source of Garcia's mirth—his son, who was also smiling, though much more reservedly. David did some quick mental math—Christopher would be nineteen next month, in that strange space between teen and adult, his life still filled with so many uncertainties and unknown challenges, and right now, he was the target of some sadistic bastard, all because of a stupid mistake that his parents made one night.

Wait a minute.

How did the Replicator know?

* * *

"Erin." The deep timbre of the director's voice stopped her in her tracks. She turned back around, thinking perhaps that he'd forgotten some last missive—they'd just wrapped up the protective custody briefing, and she was anxious to get back to her children before they were whisked away.

She stood perfectly still, waiting for him to catch up. They'd been relative strangers when he stepped into the position four years ago, but they worked well together, because he was good at giving orders and she was good at enforcing them. He wasn't the best director she'd worked under, but he wasn't the worst, either, so she tolerated him with an easy civility, because it was simply politics, and that was a game that she played quite well.

"You don't look well, Erin," he lowered his voice, the corners of his eyes crinkling in concern.

"I haven't slept," she admitted, not really sure why it was any of his damn business.

"Do you...do you think you might need to go to a meeting?"

She blinked at the words, which came like a slap in the face. She heard her own shocked voice whisper, "Excuse me?"

"Times like this can be stressful," he seemed unaware of how his words had affected her. His hand was gently cupping her wrist in a gesture that was meant to be caring, and Erin Strauss fought every urge not to rip away from his grasp.

_Stressful. If you only knew._

"I haven't had a drink in eleven months, sir," she cleared her throat, trying to keep her tone neutral. Inwardly, she teetered between frustrated tears (how strange, how often and how easily she seemed to cry lately) and venomous indignation. She took another deep breath to steel herself. "I didn't have one yesterday, and I won't have one today, and I can honestly say that I don't think I'll have one tomorrow. I understand your concern, but I assure you, right now, the last thing I need to do is sit in some church basement for hours on end while a psychopath stalks my team and my son."

He gave a curt nod, suddenly realizing that he'd offended her with his insinuations.

"Anything else, sir?" His hand was still on her wrist, and it was pushing the limits of her legendary patience when it came to politics and politesse.

He gave another smile (one that did not reach his eyes), and offered her a friendly pat on the shoulder. "That's all, Chief."

"Thank you, sir."  _Fuck you very much, sir_.

* * *

**June 2012. Vienna, Virginia.**

Erin's hand gave the slightest tremor as she clutched the heavy glass tumbler. Despite her long and varied experience with escapades in alcohol, that still surprised her. After all, she'd been stone-cold sober for months now. Apparently a few months couldn't erase years' worth of conditioning, because she could already feel the ache seeping up the back of her rib cage (gods, she hadn't  _craved_  like that since she left the drink tank), the familiar pull both comforting and disconcerting.

Today Christopher was eighteen years old. On this day eighteen years ago, Paul had held her hand as she pushed and panted and cried and cursed, had beamed with pride as the nurse presented them with the fruits of Erin's labor—a tiny, very red and very loud baby boy. Erin had feared this moment for so long—the moment she would know the truth about the child she'd carried, the panic that she would suddenly feel guilty or unable to love him. She'd seen the thick, dark hair, and her suspicions had been confirmed. And despite her fears, she had found that she loved the babe all the more.

"He's perfect," she'd whispered through the tears, and Paul had agreed. And once he'd left, along with the doctors and nurses, and she had been left alone with her son, cocooned in the soft hour afforded by the relatively-new hospital policy of skin-to-skin contact, she had carefully cataloged every finger and every toe, had slipped off the little hat to lightly caress the symbol of his true paternity, had wondered softly at the miracle that now rested between her breasts.  _This is my son. This is my son with David._

This fragile, tiny thing had been her secret, her sweet gift, and though she had known that he would be the source of so much anxiety later on in life, she had realized that she could never regret what she'd done to bring him into this world.

In that moment, she'd realized that she truly cared for David Rossi, despite all the fights and harsh words, despite all the fear and worry their last moments together had created. It was different from the way she loved Paul, but it was still true.

Eighteen years later, all those conflicting feelings were still true. She still loved Christopher just as fiercely as she did the first time she held him in her arms (perhaps even more so); she still cared for Paul and she still cared for David.

A month ago, she'd asked David Rossi to let her get a year of sobriety under her belt before they took their first steps towards something new. He'd agreed, and she'd felt the first flutter of hope in her heart, after so many dark months. But now, her hope was replaced by reality—if they moved forward, then he would eventually have to meet her children. He would have to meet Christopher, and then he'd know.

Eighteen years and nine months ago, she'd begun the first threads of a delicately-spun deceit. And every day, she felt herself moving one step closer to having it all unravel. She took a sip of the amber-colored liquid, grimacing at the bitter taste but welcoming the burn. She knew she would regret this tomorrow morning, but for now, it was a much needed distraction.

The bright and shining jewel at the center of this cleverly-crafted lie was pulling up into her driveway now (she could hear his speakers blaring from a block away, and she fought down a wave of irritation—how many times had she told him to turn that music down?). The music died and she heard the car door slam. She took another sip, and suddenly, the taste was unbearable.

Today was Christopher's birthday. Today was the day she'd taken the first drink in almost six months. Was she really using her son as her drinking excuse? The thought made her feel dirty, made her feel horrible, terrible, the worst kind of mother.

No. She'd been to hell and back, she'd lived through the aching nights of withdrawal, the humiliation of check-ins with her superiors, the disappointed looks of her children, the loss of Paul—and all for what? So that she could simply slip back into the bottle, back into the downward spiral that would only end when she was dead?

The front door opened and Christopher's voice called out, "The birthday boy has arrived!"

She poured the liquid down the sink, grabbed what was left of the bottle and tossed it in the trash can with a satisfying thud, turning to smile brightly at the young man who walked into the kitchen.

Gods, he looked so much like his father, with his dancing dark eyes and easy smile. Her heart swelled with love and pride at the person he'd become, and secretly, she knew that if David ever met him, he'd be proud, too (if he ever knew, if she ever had the courage to tell him).

Life was still so beautiful, despite her best attempts to fuck it up. She'd raised three brilliant, healthy, happy children, had shared some good moments and tender times with a man who'd loved her (though in the end, it wasn't enough, but still, there was still so much good), and now she had the promise of something deeper with a man who'd captured some part of her soul years ago.

She'd never take another drink again. She knew that, with a strange sense of calm that settled into her bones, bubbling back through her body in a joyous euphoria.

Her sweet son was hugging her now, his typical greeting now that he'd moved off to college (he was starting to truly appreciate his mother, now that he wasn't living under her roof). She held onto him for just a few seconds longer, smiling as she held her life's greatest secret, and one of her life's greatest joys.

"Happy birthday, baby."

* * *

**May 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

Grey leather Dior heels tapping double-time through the halls, Erin Strauss' mind was focused on one thing: getting to Christopher and Jordan before they went back home with the protective detail. She breezed through the double glass doors, her eyes automatically flying to David's office. The door was closed, but she could see his silhouette through the window. The simple knowledge that he was so close was enough to make her stomach flip and her mouth dry.

At Erin Strauss' arrival, David Rossi sat up slightly, his whole body tensing as if he'd been shocked. This, of course, did not escape Aaron Hotchner's quick gaze, and suddenly the younger man knew that JJ's warning had been true—there was something wrong between Erin and Dave, but it wasn't one of their usual brawls. Dave looked like he was physically in pain, and Erin kept ducking her head and turning away from Rossi's closed door, as if she could sense his gaze and wanted only to hide from it.

David wanted to look away, because the mere sight of the blonde was enough to break his heart all over again, but he found himself transfixed as he watched every nuance of her. He had to see for himself how she treated his son—was she gentler, was she harsher? Did she love him more than Jordan? Did she love him less? Did she seem him as some grievous reminder of past sins? Did she regret the child she'd borne him?

Her facial expression was as soft and worrisome as ever, perhaps more lined with fear and fatigue, but that was understandable. Chris said something to her before turning around and walking towards David's door, and he saw Erin's hand jerk, as if she wanted to pull him back but stopped herself. She nervously rubbed her ring finger (that had always been her "tell", ever since David had known her), her grey eyes following her son's movements. David could tell that she was holding her breath.

David could see Christopher approaching his door, and he took a deep breath to steel himself. There was a soft knock, and then Christopher's dark head peered cautiously around the edge of the door.

Hotch was already on his feet, quickly allaying Christopher's uncertainty by saying, "I was just leaving."

The young man opened the door wider, stepping aside to let Hotch exit. With one last glance over his shoulder at his anxious mother, Christopher stepped into David's office.

"Hey," he said simply, tucking his hands into his jeans' pockets.

"Hey, kid," David tried to keep his voice neutral.

"So, Jordan and I are leaving—the detail's here," he tilted his head back in the direction of the bullpen.

"You'll be safe," the older man assured him. "Your mother wouldn't have anything less than the best of our best keeping watch over you."

"I know," Chris admitted with a small smile. "I just—I wanted to ask you a favor."

The young man took a deep breath before he continued, "Will you…will you keep an eye on Mom, for me?"

_Oh, son. You really don't know what you're asking of me right now._

"I know, she says she's fine…but I know she's not," Chris continued, his voice quivering. "And she gets distracted, when she's worried about one of us kids. I just don't want her to…I don't want her to be distracted while this guy's still on the loose."

_God, Erin, how could you ever doubt that your children love you?_  David swallowed the lump in his throat as he looked into Christopher's eyes (so like his own), and quietly promised, "I'll keep an eye on her. I won't let anything happen to her."

The young man gave a curt nod, a relieved smile spreading across his features. "Good, good. I'll, uh, I guess I'll see ya later?"

David thought he might be telling a lie when he said, "See ya later."

With one last smile, Chris turned and headed back down into the bullpen again. Erin's eyes remained on David's silhouette, somehow meeting his eyes for a beat before turning her attention back to her children. Jordan gave a little wave, which David returned, then she quietly reached over and took her brother's hand. JJ was kissing Henry's blond head, saying something to Will before her husband scooped the young boy into his arms and followed the agents out the door. Hotch was standing next to Jack, who would stay in the BAU just a little bit longer, until Haley's sister Jessica arrived. Jack was obviously thrilled about getting to hang out with his dad, beaming as Morgan joked with him, looking back up at Hotch with a worshipful expression.  _Fathers and sons_. David suddenly felt the urge to scream, but of course, he didn't. He simply sat there, every nerve ending in his body raw and hurting at the sight of his son, walking out of the BAU, surrounded by so many agents and so many guns, suddenly seeming much smaller and much younger.

God, what had they done?

* * *

Strauss did not appear at the team briefing that morning, citing another meeting with the director (which was true, completely true and professional and much less childish than her real reason for not wanting to be there). Hotchner had agreed to meet with her later in the day to get her back up to speed.

Again, the director asked a few searching personal questions as to how she was handling the situation, and again, she held her tongue, though her mind turned blue with profanities. But now that part of the ordeal was over and she was finally able to retreat back to the quiet solace of her own office.

Erin took a moment to scowl at Carrington as she entered the reception area—she'd already given her the worst bawling-out of her life, but Erin had decided that she would let the poor unfortunate soul suffer throughout the day, just to further enforce the lesson. Also, someone had to bear the brunt for the director's total lack of tact, since she certainly couldn't take her anger out on him.

She closed the door, barely stopping herself from slamming it like a hormonal teenager, clutching her head in her hands as she whispered a string of oaths and curses against the director and the Replicator and the world in general, her harsh words filled with a venom that seemed almost lethal.

Once her childish tantrum was over, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath ( _in through the nostrils, out through the mouth, just breathe_ ), pulled her shoulders back, and turned to her desk. She nearly shrieked when she saw David Rossi, seated on the black leather couch in the corner of the room, as still and as quiet as the grim reaper himself.

"We need to talk."


	22. Madonna Eleusa

_"To err is human; but contrition felt for the crime distinguishes the virtuous from the wicked."_

_~Vittorio Alfieri._

* * *

**May 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

Erin Strauss' heart was pounding so loudly that she was certain that David could hear it, even from across the room. He sat so calmly, so quintessentially  _David_ , and she felt an ache deep in her chest, just to be able to curl up in his lap and listen to his heartbeat keeping time with her own, to wrap her arms around his neck and whisper in his ear,  _Let's just pretend this never happened, let's pretend you love me again_.

But she could not ask such a thing, because she did not deserve his forgiveness, nor his love, nor the comfort of his presence. So she simply waited for David to speak again, trying to shore up her defenses against whatever may come. He looked like hell—there were dark circles under his eyes, and his usually immaculate clothing was wrinkled (something that someone else might not notice, but she knew him so well, knew what it meant, knew that it was the physical manifestation of his inner turmoil), and she felt another wave of sadness and self-loathing.  _This is all your doing_.

This was the closest he'd been to her all day, and David realized that Christopher's assessment had been correct—Erin was not doing well. The fine skin beneath her eyes was etched with deep lines from dehydration and lack of sleep, her startling grey-green irises were further intensified by her bloodshot sclerae, and her cheeks were hollowed from fatigue and worry. She was already rubbing her ring finger again, worrying her bottom lip as she watched him with cautious eyes, unsure of what to do or say.

He hated how fearful she looked. He hated knowing that he was part of the reason that she was so pale, so sickly, so filled with dread. More than anything, he hated the fact that he still cared about her welfare.

He looked away. He didn't want to be here, didn't want to hear her voice (even hearing her hiss a stream of profanities had created the familiar prickling across his skin, as if his body didn't listen to his mind when it said  _we don't want to feel like that about her anymore_ ), didn't want to be reminded of all the parts of her that he'd loved, but there were things that were more important than his broken and betrayed heart. This was bigger than them. This was about Christopher's safety. David was not going to discover his long-lost son, only to lose him to some sick bastard. Every second was hell, but parents endured all kinds of pain and discomfort for the security of their children. It was just part of the package. So he pushed aside his personal turmoil and focused on the task at hand.

"You think the Replicator chose Christopher because I'm his father," he was surprised at how calmly he spoke, at how simple that statement sounded as it rolled off his tongue. "How does he know that Chris is my son?"

"I don't know," Erin admitted softly, her breath catching at David's words. "I never—I never told anyone. I never mentioned any of the times we spent together….did you?"

"No," he answered with a shake of his head.

"Then the only way he could know…was if he knew us both. Very well." The wheels were turning in her analyst brain, putting together the little bits of data. "He would have to know, or at least have some suspicion of what our relationship was like back then."

"We never said anything—"

"People knew, David," she interrupted quietly. Noting his confused expression, she continued gently, "Don't you remember the glances, the whispers? Even before we were actually together, people used to call our fights lovers' quarrels. Mark Smith used to joke about it all the time, saying he'd wished that we'd just hurry up and fuck already, and get past the passive-aggressive foreplay."

Suddenly, David did remember, "But those were just jokes, just passing comments—Mark always thought that I was sleeping with every female agent in the Bureau."

_It wasn't far from the truth_ , Erin wanted to retort, but they weren't at the point where jokes would be acceptable. Right now, David was speaking to her, he was working with her to figure out this little mystery, and even though he still wouldn't look her in the eye, she'd take what she could get.

"Someone must have believed them," she shrugged.

"Someone who knew that we were in Seattle at the same time, and that you gave birth nine months later," David added, still incredulous at the odds.

"This has to be an inside job." The weight of that revelation sank in Erin's stomach like a stone. "We don't have any mutual acquaintances outside of the Bureau, and no one would have ever heard those rumors, unless they were working on a case with us."

There was a moment of silence as they considered the implication of such a thing.

Finally, Erin broke the silence, her voice quivering as she asked, "Should we tell the team?"

David let out a long sigh as he contemplated her question. Then, with a single shake of his head, he answered, "No. We could be wrong. He could just be targeting sons—his signature could possibly only include sons, not daughters. I say we lay low until we know something further."

She nodded in agreement, not daring to hope or to even wonder why he was still protecting their secret.

Their secret. The thought struck her—for almost two decades, it had been her secret, hers and hers alone. Now it was  _theirs_. Of course, it was also the thing that ripped them apart, but still, now they finally shared the truth. There was some odd measure of relief in that.

David stood up suddenly, and Erin took a step back. She could sense the pain and hurt rolling off his frame in waves, filling the room with a heavy, breathless dread. He still wouldn't look at her—it was as if she'd become his Medusa, as if one glance would turn him to stone—and that hurt, because she could always bear his hatred much easier than she could his indifference, because she knew that she was hurting him, just by being in the same room, and she hated knowing that she was only adding to the grief that she'd already caused.

He moved towards the door, stopping as his hand rested on the doorknob. He didn't turn back to her as he asked in a quietly and heartbreakingly small voice, "Why, Erin?"

Tears brimmed in those grey-green eyes, but she blinked and they disappeared again. She would be strong, she would face the truth and give him whatever he asked for, whatever he needed.

"Because I didn't think we'd ever see each other again—and I didn't know what to say, or how to say it. After all, we'd agreed... _a fling's a fling, kid,_  remember?" She stepped forward on trembling legs, her hand automatically reaching for him, wanting so desperately for him to understand, for a chance to reconnect, but she pulled back. He didn't want that, didn't want her, didn't want anything to do with this mess she'd created, and she didn't blame him. With another deep breath, she forced herself to continue, "And when you came back, we'd already...Paul and I had Anna, and he didn't know, and we were happy—and you were happy, too. By then, Christopher was almost four years old, and so much time had passed, and I...I was just too afraid."

The last statement was the shining moment of truth, the real meat of her confession—the rest were just excuses, reasons she'd created over the years, justifications for the fear coursing underneath it all.

David simply nodded. Then he opened the door and walked away.

Erin felt sick again, and her hands began to tremble once more as she walked forward and quietly shut the door, holding onto the doorknob a little longer than necessary, rubbing it gently with her thumb (it was stupid, soppy and sentimental in a way that bordered on mentally unwell, but gods, it was something that connected them—he had touched it, and now she was touching it, and she imagined that the warmth she felt on the smooth metal was left by his hand).

She'd been preparing herself for this moment for months now, but it didn't change the fact that her mind still reeled at the reality of it all. Every time before, every fight before, there was always some semblance of a chance of redemption, some possibility of future reconciliation. But this wasn't even a fight—it wasn't anything that they'd been through before, because for the first time ever, David was tapping out. He didn't want long discussions or angry words or quiet apologies. He didn't want anything, except to be as far away from her as possible.

Erin felt another pang at the realization that the one thing he wanted was the one thing she couldn't give him.

* * *

**Rural Virginia.**

Grief is like a long, wet, woolen grey cloak. It weighs you down, almost suffocating you, sticking to your skin in a heavy, clammy, uncomfortable way, and no matter what you do, you can't simply take it off. You have to keep trudging along, dragging the damn thing with you.

David Rossi knew exactly how that felt. He was all too acquainted with its weight, with its discomfort, with its perpetual presence. During his lifetime, he'd lost many things and many people, in many ways and in varying degrees of sorrow.

He'd been down this road before—he'd lost the woman he loved (he would always love Carolyn, in the rosy-golden way that one always loves their first true love, idyllic and a bit unrealistically, but still deep and abiding), he'd lost other women in other ways, he'd been betrayed before, had learned to live through heartache and heartbreak, and he would learned to do it again.

Of course, every loss was different, on some level. The loss of Erin was different, because she was still living, still moving quietly around him; they were still like two planets in their respective orbits, always aware, always connected, always floating at the back of each others' lives. It would be a continuous cycle, a crash-course in learning to look at her again, to see that face (the one he'd studied with the intensity of a master painter, hoping to capture every nuance, every spark of his subject), to hear that voice (the one that had uttered such beautiful things to him, that spoke his name in a way that could rend mountains into ashes, that could ignite his blood with a single hum), to stand next to that body (the one he'd coveted so darkly, all those years ago, whose scent and texture and weight and depth had been his own holy communion, that always sparked some strange chemical reaction within his being), to be constantly surrounded by every fiber of her aura and learn how to be completely unaffected by it, in any way.

It was physically painful, being in the same room with that woman. The entire day had been a bundle of nerves and sighs, unspoken sorrows and unshed tears as the two had tried to work around each other—she'd stayed away from the BAU as much as possible, but whenever she was there, she moved quietly, holding her breath and trying not to cause so much as a ripple in the soft, sad silence that pooled around him. David was grateful for her consideration, but at the same time, it only added to his grief—her tenderness reminded him of all the beautiful, sweet moments before, and it only compounded the reality of their situation (that part of them was forever gone, that was something he could never fully experience ever again, and every past moment of tenderness was now tainted by the bitter knowledge of her treachery).

She still loved him. He knew that. And he still loved her, which only made it worse.

With another heavy sigh, he entered his home, dreading the next few hours until he could leave again, until he could return to the office and try to lose himself in his work. Almost against his will, he glanced into the living room again. The all-too-mundane manila envelope was still patiently waiting for him.

He'd survived the day. It was time to push through this final act, this last unveiling of the ugly truth.

But first things first. He really needed a drink.

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia**.

She was trespassing. She knew that. She was no better than a common thief, a stalker, one of those crazed individuals whom they captured on a regular basis. Still, this knowledge did not stop Erin Strauss from waiting until everyone else had left the BAU, slipping through the neatly-ordered rows of desks and up the stairs, into David's office.

She didn't turn on a light; she didn't have to. The lights from the parking lots and neighboring buildings seeping through the windows were enough to illuminate the contours of this private world, and the shadows were actually comforting. If she sat still enough, she could imagine herself sinking into the room itself, becoming part of it, being able to simply stay there and watch over him as he went about his day.

She slipped into his chair, feeling the grooves left by his own body, after countless hours spent going over files or typing away at his latest book or consulting on cases around the country via telephone conference. His cologne still lingered in the air and her chest tightened with sadness at the achingly familiar scent.

Aside from the strange and anxious encounter in her office, they hadn't spoken all day. And all day, she'd felt like there wasn't enough oxygen in her lungs. There was so much that she wanted to say to him, but she knew that he didn't want to hear it, so she kept silent (because it wasn't about healing her own hurts, it was about letting him heal his, because she didn't deserve a chance to explain or justify her actions, because he'd always sacrificed his own wants and needs for her whims, and now, she was martyring herself for his, because she needed to atone, to somehow lessen the debt that she owed him, after all those years of his quiet assents). She didn't ask him what he was going to do, or whether he was going to tell Paul or Christopher. That would be his decision entirely, and she would let him decide whenever he was ready.

She deserved every ounce of this painful punishment. She knew that. That didn't ease the ache that radiated from every fiber of her being. She'd wounded him, but hadn't been kind enough to kill him completely—she could tell that he still cared, and she felt an overwhelming sense of guilt (because she didn't deserve his affection, didn't deserve his love and his loyalty, because she knew that his feelings for her only added to his suffering).

Maybe the director had been right. Maybe she did need to go to a meeting. She didn't feel the urge to drink, but at least she could confess some measure of her sins to anonymous strangers, could unburden a small part of her soul in a safe place.

Strangers. Unburdening. Safe place.

Had she ever mentioned her affairs with David during the AA meetings?

Oh, gods.

Sure, the meeting were anonymous (that was the whole point), but if the Replicator was there, and he was someone from her past, then he would have recognized her, would have known who she was, even though she never mentioned her job or the names of anyone whom she knew. She'd talked about having an affair (never said David's name, never said it was a coworker, never mentioned that it resulted in a child), and if he'd been there...he could have known enough of her life and her backstory to fill in the blanks.

She had no idea what the Replicator looked like. He could have been sitting next to her, holding her hand as they prayed the Serenity Prayer, nodding in saddened understanding as she recounted horrible binges and admitted to the havoc she'd wreaked on her family. He could have been there the whole time.

Oh, gods.

* * *

**Rural Virginia.**

Judging from the way the envelope felt in his hands, David could wager a pretty good guess as to its contents. Once he opened it, his suspicions were confirmed. He leaned forward, gingerly taking a stack of photographs out of the envelope and setting them on the coffee table.

_This is yours now_.

A photo of a much younger Erin, face still puffy and red, hair completely frazzled, holding a tiny newborn, wearing the brightest, proudest smile that he'd ever seen. He flipped the picture over to find Erin's neat, thin script:  _Christopher Paul Strauss. 6lbs. 11oz. 18 inches._

A photo of Erin sitting Indian-style, a dark-haired toddler curled up in her lap, opening a present. They both seemed completely oblivious of the camera—he was focusing on unwrapping his gift; she was watching his face with unmistakable adoration.  _Second birthday_.

There were shots of her on the beach, their son on her hip, both smiling as the wind whipped their hair, and candids of silly faces and precious moments, one of him seated at the kitchen table, his young face adorably serious as he concentrated on his coloring book, which bore Erin's comment on the back:  _Hard at work, age five_.

These were the moments she'd stolen from David, the memories that he would never truly get to experience because of her decision, and he understood the gesture—she was trying to ease the loss, as best as she could.

_This is yours now_.

He was surprised that these photos didn't cause him any pain—in fact, he found himself smiling slightly at young Christopher's antics, and although there was a wave of sadness every time that Erin had captured their son in a moment that so plainly showed he was David Rossi's child, it did not outweigh the tenderness that those images inspired. He felt the tears slipping down his face, but he didn't even bother to wipe them away.

A picture was worth a thousand words. The last two photographs were Erin's silent confessions.

The first was a shot of Jordan and Christopher. It was captioned:  _Dress up, ages 7 & 3_. Jordan, with her dirty-dishwater blonde hair, was smiling at the camera, so proud of herself. She was wearing a princess dress and a pair of her mother's high heels, her young face smudged with lipstick. Christopher was also in a dress (the source of those stories he'd heard the first time they'd all met, he remembered with a soft smile), though it hung off his smaller frame, revealing Spiderman pajamas underneath. He was not looking at the camera—his big brown eyes were turned to his sister, looking at her with the worshipful adoration that all younger siblings seem to have when they are small. His chubby little fingers were wrapped around his sister's hand. David thought back to the gentle interactions between the two siblings earlier that day, in the bullpen, and he understood Erin's message:  _This is why I hid the truth for so long. This is what I wanted to protect. This is what I feared destroying_.

The second photo made David's heart stop. It was the only one in black and white, as though it'd been taken by an amateur with a professional camera. Erin was slumped in a rocking chair, an infant Chris curled up on her chest, both dead asleep after what looked like a long and restless night. The sun seeped through the nursery windows in the background, outlining their silhouette in a soft glow, the blonde tendrils around Erin's head catching the sunlight and creating a halo. With her peaceful expression and her Grecian nose and that small, dark head perfectly nestled into the crook of her neck, she resembled a neoclassical rendition of the madonna.  _Forgive me, I have sinned._

_This is yours now._

_This is still yours, if you want it._


	23. A History in Grief

_"Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe."_

_~Anne Bronte._

* * *

**April 1979. Pomfret, Maryland.**

David had never realized how paramount a simple question of location could be. When considering his own resting place, he hadn't much cared, so long as it was in a churchyard, facing east, and next to Carolyn. However, that was different, because once he was dead, he wouldn't really care.

But he wasn't the one being buried. And suddenly what seemed like a simple question became an agonizing choice.

Of course, everything about the last four days had been absolutely agonizing. From the moment that Carolyn had awakened him in the middle of the night, her eyes wide with terror at the blood seeping between her legs, their lives had become a whirlwind of panic and prayers and so many tears. There was an emergency c-section, and James had come into the world a few weeks earlier than planned. But the doctors had given him a chance of survival, and the next few hours were spent praying and trying to make bargains with a silent and deaf God.

James, who seemed so utterly perfect, despite the tubes and machines, quietly slipped away, and David had felt as if the world actually stopped. Carolyn had cried hysterically, but he'd simply stood there, too numb for reality to register.

Then came more choices.  _What outfit would you like your son to be buried in? Which casket? Which funeral home?_

But the most important one was where.

Did they bury him in Commack, where he could be surrounded by his father's family? Or in Trenton, with Carolyn's people? Or should he be interred near his parents' home? Should he be somewhere surrounded by people who would have loved him, or alone, where his parents could visit him every day? What would they do if the Bureau transferred David elsewhere?

Children should grow up, and bury their parents, and then be buried next to their parents. That was the way things were supposed to be. Parents should not have to make these types of decisions, because they should never have to bury their children. That was not how the world should be.

Carolyn had nearly collapsed as they lowered the tiny casket into the ground, and now David was faced with another agonizing choice. Did he follow Carolyn back to the car, or did he stay here as they finished covering his son ( _he's too tiny to be left here alone, too tiny to be so deep in the earth, too small, he can't just be abandoned_ )? How could he simply walk away? How could he leave  _his son_?

James was in a better place (at least that's what they said, but what better place could there be for a baby than his parents' arms?), but Carolyn was not. David chose to follow his wife, but he was certain that his heart stayed behind, forever floating over that heartbreakingly small patch of freshly-dug earth.

* * *

**May 2013. Rural Virginia.**

The hardest part of losing James had been the constant flood of all the things that would never be—the first steps, the first words, the first laughs, the first tee-ball game, the first fishing trip, the first day of school, the many quiet moments of parenthood that had been so darkly stolen away from him and Carolyn. The day that they returned from the hospital and had to face the brightly colored nursery, so full of hope and joyful expectation, had been one of the hardest moments of David's life. Carolyn had locked herself away in their bedroom while he and his sisters had sorted through all the baby shower gifts, packing away the tiny blankets already monogrammed with James' initials, all the little trinkets and baby accessories that they would not need (not ever, not anymore, especially since the doctors had informed them that Carolyn could never carry a child again). That was the day that David Rossi realized if he could survive the soul-crippling loss of his child, then he could survive anything. It had been a constant hell, realizing all the little moments that would be forever denied them.

He had been denied those moments with Christopher, too, but in a different way. His second (secret) son had survived, had experienced all those little moments, even though David hadn't been there to witness them. He'd lost the chance to be a father, again. He knew that Paul had been a good dad, but that only deepened the pain—he was glad that Chris had an ideal childhood, a perfect nuclear family, but that also meant that he didn't  _need_  David, and that hurt.

David looked up at the pictures displayed across the wall of his study—in a small frame, in the corner, barely noticeable, was the first and last photo that he and Erin had ever taken together. It was from Ruthie Golden's retirement party, just after they'd ended their little fling in Philadelphia. His arm was around her waist (he could still remember exactly how it felt, the solid warmth of her body, the way it fit so naturally), her head was tilted, almost resting on his shoulder, their eyes bright and merry as they beamed at the camera. If he cut the other people out of the photo, they would look like a happy, ordinary couple. They looked good together.

The thought made him flash back to the morning of his birthday, to the burning image of their bodies reflected in the bathroom mirror, naked and flushed, her back arching into him as her fingers ran through his hair, pulling his mouth back to her skin. That was over twenty years after the photo, and they still complemented each other so well.  _We look good together, bella._

Even then, she'd carried a dark truth in her heart. She'd known, and she'd let him continue in his blissful ignorance. Despite how beautifully intimate and loving that moment had appeared, it was far from the truth.  _Things are never what they seem_.

* * *

**Vienna, Virginia.**

Erin Strauss did not like the fact that she didn't recognize any of the agents assigned to Christopher's protective detail. If the Replicator was someone on the inside, he could easily be one of the silently foreboding men in black stationed around her house. The thought caused another wave of panic to claw up her throat, but she pushed the fear back down as she entered the house and pasted on a smile for her children.

"How goes the house arrest?" She asked, just a tad too cheerily, and they knew that she was still petrified.

"We're fine, Mom," Jordan replied softly, rising from the armchair to wrap her into a hug. Chris got up and joined his sister, and the three Strausses simply held each other for a moment.

"My children are willingly hugging me—we really must be in the middle of a crisis," she quipped, and that earned her two light laughs.

"I was just waiting for you to get home before I called it a night," her daughter informed her, moving into the foyer and towards the stairs. She called over her shoulder, "Good night, you princes of Maine, you kings of New England."

Christopher turned to his mother with an amused smile, "Did she just quote  _Cider House Rules_  to us?"

"She did."

"You have strange children, you know that?"

"I do." Erin admitted dryly. Then she smiled, "But they ensure there's never a dull moment."

"Case in point," Chris motioned to the driveway, where two black SUVs were parked. However, his joke fell flat when his mother's face paled. "I'm sorry, Mom."

"It's not your fault," she told him, and she meant it.

The phone rang, interrupting the stillness of the house.

"Who would be calling this late at night?" Chris wondered aloud.

"Your father," Erin answered, grabbing the phone from the end table.

Paul's voice was comforting after the jagged events of the day (he'd called to talk about the situation with Jordan earlier, and she'd been surprised at how relieved she was to hear his voice again). "Everybody in for the night?"

"Safe and sound," she replied softly.

"How's it going?"

"It's...it's going," she answered truthfully. He gave a small hum of understanding. "How's Anna?"

"Not happy that she has to miss Sarah Callahan's party, which apparently is going to be the social event of the century."

She gave a smile at her husband's humor, especially when she heard Anna's light retort in the background. Silently, she was grateful that her youngest would only be a teenager for two more years—the constant drama and battling of raising a teen was something she certainly wouldn't miss.

"She thinks we're overreacting, as usual," Paul said in a conspiratorial tone. "I told her that she was absolutely right, and this was all just some twisted plot to keep her from enjoying life."

Erin gave a short laugh at the quip, finding an old sense of familiarity at the sound of Paul laughing with her. She always reacted to fear with anger, but he'd always been her polar opposite, finding ways to make her smile even in the direst circumstances. That spark had been missing from Paul's personality during their last few years of marriage, but since their separation, he'd mellowed out again, becoming more like the man she'd met all those years ago, and she was glad. He deserved it.

She looked up and saw the oddly hopeful expression in her son's face, and her mother-heart contracted with sorrow. That was what she regretted the most about the divorce—its effect on the children. For the most part, they had accepted that their parents were moving on, in different directions, but every time that she and Paul had a nice moment in front of them, their eyes lit up with a wistful longing that stabbed her to the core.

Paul's tone became serious as he quietly asked, "Are you any closer to catching this guy, Erin?"

She bit her lip, taking a deep breath before answering, "No. Not yet."

The only new information was the realization that it had to be an inside job, and that wasn't something she could disclose right now.

Paul was silent, and she felt the need to reassure him, "We're going to get him, Paul. The BAU team won't stop until we've got him. We've got the smartest people in the room, I promise."

"I know. I have faith in you," he answered simply, and she knew that it was true. Paul Strauss was the one who always had faith in her, even when she didn't have any in herself.

She glanced up at her son again as she asked, "Do you want to speak to Chris? He's right here."

"Sure. Put him on."

She handed the phone to her son and walked into the kitchen, the low intonation of her son's voice following her throughout the house. The cat suddenly appeared at her feet, trying to weave its way through her legs and nearly tripping her.

"Constantine," she admonished, scooping him into her arms.

She remembered the day she'd brought the kitten home—a tiny ball of fluff, too adorable and too innocent to leave in the grocery-store parking lot where she found him. He might have been a total mutt, but his markings were almost Himalayan, and his ice-blue eyes had given him an imperial look—prompting Jordan, ever the history buff, to name him Constantine, after the Roman emperor. Christopher had agreed to the name, because he liked the comic book anti-hero of the same moniker. That was how her children were—different reasons, same conclusion.

The now fully-grown and very large cat was purring happily in her arms as she absentmindedly rubbed his ears, walking around her own house as if she were a stranger. She entered her study (once it was Paul's, but when he moved out, she converted it to her own), her eyes traveling around the room. An old photo box still sat on her desk—she'd pulled it from the shelf to find pictures of Christopher to give to David. How carefully she'd chosen each one, each piece of their son's life story, meticulously ignoring the ones that were photos of Paul and Chris, keeping only the ones that showed David just how much Christopher was like him.

She wanted David to know that she had always cherished their son, that she loved him, loved all the little ways that he was like his true father, that she'd catalogued and guarded those attributes with motherly pride and affection. She wanted him to know what Chris looked like as a child, to know how innocent he looked when he slept, how devilishly adorable when he was a bright-eyed toddler, how exuberant and joyful he seemed even as a teenager. She wanted to make some kind of reparations for all the things that David had missed, all the moments that she'd robbed him of, all the small knowledges that a father would have.

She suddenly realized that her gift might have been seen as some form of manipulation, some kind of cheap trick to pluck David's heartstrings, some silent plea to help their darling son and save him from the Replicator's clutches, and she felt sick at the thought. She began to pray that David would see the photos as what they really were—a step towards atonement, a silent amend for her wrongs against him, an illustrated love letter, an ode to all that they were, to their greatest achievement, their purest moment, their best and brightest parts contained within one shining soul, the living, breathing proof of their secret life.

_Don't do this for me; do it for him. Let him know that I don't want to hurt him any further. Let it heal him. Please. Please. Please._

In that moment, her desperation turned into a deep, dark, hot hatred for the man who had led them to this point, the UNSUB who had stolen what was left of her precious time with David, the one who'd turned her house into a prison and her family into captives of fear and uncertainty, the one who hunted her team, who filled Aaron and JJ's stomachs with the same sickening dread. There were so many things that Erin Strauss could forgive ( _could_ , not  _would_ ), but he'd breached all lines of justice the instant he took her son's photo. He'd brought the fight to her doorstep, and gods be damned if Erin Strauss was not one born and bred for battle. Justice was abandoned. Revenge took its place. She'd see this man captured, and she would stare right into his eyes through the cold, hard glass as they strapped him into the electric chair or filled his veins with poison. Gods, she'd do it, if it were the last thing she ever did.

_That was your last mistake, you baseless bastard. You chose the wrong woman to strike, and before this is all said and done, you'll know. You'll know and you'll see just what it means to pick a fight that you can't possibly win._

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia.**

Aaron Hotchner stared at the black and white photo of his son for what seemed like the thousandth time. It had been three days since Erin had handed him the photos, had stopped his heart with a single image.

He'd promised Haley that this wouldn't happen again. He knew it was an irrational promise, something over which he had no control, and yet he felt angry that it had been broken. What the hell had they done to this UNSUB, to make him go after their innocent sons?

Right now, Jack was home, happily watching cartoons with Beth as his aunt Jessica prepared pancakes, his current favorite food. Aaron smiled as he remembered how Beth had volunteered to come back to Virginia (he hadn't asked, though he wanted to)—the second he'd told her what was happening, she had informed him that she had several days of sick leave saved up and she could be there by the next morning. She had added, suddenly hesitant,  _If you want me to_.

Her concern and her immediate commitment were both heartwarming and affirming. And yes, he wanted her to—he told her so. She could only stay a few more days, but the peace of mind that came from her presence was crucial to Aaron, who knew that soon, the director would force them out into the field again, regardless of the fact that they would be distracted as hell by the thought that a ruthless killer with a personal vendetta against the BAU was stalking their children.

Erin Strauss, in a not-so-surprising turn of events (not anymore), had been toeing the line with the director, insisting that the team focus only on consult work, staying safely within the confines of Quantico and within a reasonable distance from their endangered offspring. He admired her pluck, and he knew her bullheadedness could put almost every other personality within the Bureau to shame, but he also had to recognize the irrefutable fact that Erin would eventually have to bend to the will of her superiors, even if it meant that she'd simply be fired and replaced by someone else.

As if his thoughts had conjured her up, Aaron noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turned to see the formidable blonde entering the bullpen. Erin Strauss was barreling through at a pace that normally would signal her impending wrath, but the look on her face was much too worried to imply anger. She quickly mounted the stairs and entered Hotch's office without even bothering to knock.

"I am so sorry, Aaron, I tried," she was in strange state, vacillating between distress and regret.

"He's sending us back into the field," Aaron surmised before she could even deliver the news.

"I told him that it was too soon—it's only been three days." She gave a sigh that contained her frustration and concern. "But of course, he wouldn't listen."

That  _of course_  was a bit of a clue as to her true feelings towards the director, but Aaron filed that away for another day.

"He doesn't think that you would be distracted in the field," she continued. "I respectfully disagreed."

She had the good grace to look slightly chagrined as she added, "And then I might have disrespectfully disagreed."

"You  _might_  have?" Aaron drawled.

Her green eyes flicked up to the ceiling, "I might have said some things, which I should probably regret."

He felt an amused grin creeping across his face at her feigned innocence, at the word  _should_ , which implied that she did not, in fact, regret a single syllable of what was likely a scathing remark.

She shared his smile for a moment before returning to the matter at-hand. "Penelope has already been assigned several new cases to look over, and I'm sure she'll have a briefing arranged by tomorrow morning—that's the most she can postpone it, I'm afraid."

Again, Erin's use of Garcia's first name did not escape Hotch's notice, and he fought back another smile at the thought of the two blondes plotting to delay the director's order as long as possible. He knew that he should be appalled by Strauss' lack of professionalism and her petty ways of defying authority, that he should want to courageously go back into the field and uphold the oath he took to defend and protect society, but deep down, he was grateful for Strauss' empathy, and for having her indomitable will on his side (a welcome change).

"Thank you, Chief," he said quietly, and she understood all the rest that was left unspoken. With a curt nod, she turned to go.

"Oh, and Agent Hotchner?" She popped her head back around the doorframe, her eyes widened in faux innocence again. "If you and Agent Jareau just happen to grab sushi for lunch today and just so happen to contract a serious case of food poisoning, I would have to authorize you to stay home for a day or two...for your own well-being, of course. We couldn't have agents in the field when they're obviously ill."

He didn't even try to fight the grin that spread across his features. "Duly noted, Chief Strauss."

She offered one last true smile before turning to leave again. She stopped suddenly, as if she'd been sucker-punched, and Aaron instinctively knew why—Dave must have been out in the bullpen. The two had been circling each other cautiously for the past three days, and Erin had started coming into the BAU only when she knew that David wasn't there, such as during his usual lunch breaks or whenever he had a consult scheduled and she knew that he would be locked away in his own office. Of course, she'd been so upset over the director's edict that she hadn't thought about whether or not David was around.

Aaron Hotchner had never seen his section chief look so heartbroken—the last time she'd been this distressed was when she'd joined them in the field for the Joe Smith case and had accidentally stepped on the victim's hair. But this was a different kind of sorrow, a different kind of regret. To make matters worse, Dave seemed equally distraught. He was the first person at the office and the last one to leave every day, and if the shadows under his eyes were any indication, he apparently wasn't sleeping well. He spent more time than usual separated from the rest of the team, and his office door was closed more often, too.

Both had tried their best to pretend as if nothing had happened, though their pain seemed so evident to a room full of seasoned profilers who also knew them on a personal level. Thankfully, the rest of the team had quietly and respectfully left them alone. Erin had once told him that they weren't the type of people who talked about such things, and he knew it to be true—still, it did not stop him from wanting to ask if she was OK. He didn't want to know what had happened (well, mostly...after all, he was still a curious human being), but he did want to know that both Erin and Dave were going make it to the other side.

Erin took a step back, as if she considered retreating into his office until David disappeared again, and that simple action made Aaron rise to his feet. She noticed his movement, blushed at the realization that he'd been watching her, ducked her head and started moving again.

David saw her approaching, but he studiously kept his focus on Alex Blake, whose back was turned to Erin. He could feel Erin holding her breath as she breezed past, could almost hear the voice in her head praying that he wouldn't notice her. He caught the light scent of her perfume and immediately his mind went to the soft skin at the base of her neck—he knew how it tasted, how it felt beneath his lips, how well it reacted, how the blood beneath the skin would hum and quicken under his touch.

As she walked by, Erin swore she could actually feel the heat radiating from David's body, even though he was several feet away. Her skin was tingling with that (now painful) familiar feeling that always seemed to appear in his presence, and her heart ached at the realization that from now on, that was a thirst that would never be quenched, a feeling that would never be reciprocated. She could also feel his muscles tensing, as if he was trying to shield himself from her again, and this only made her walk faster.

David Rossi could mark the exact instant that Alex became aware of Erin's presence, because she, too, experienced a physical shift as her shoulders moved forward ever-so-slightly, as if she were trying to make herself smaller and less noticeable, and her big brown eyes followed Erin's retreating form with an odd mixture of pity and curiosity.

He also knew the moment that the glass door closed behind Erin, because those big doe eyes immediately flicked back to him, not even masking the fact that she was reading and cataloguing his reaction—though her scrutiny was softened by her obvious concern.

Alex didn't ask if he wanted to talk about it, because she already knew the answer. So she simply continued their conversation, and she could tell that David was grateful for her willful blindness.

After David returned to his office, Alex cast a glance towards the doors again, though she knew that Erin was long gone, probably carefully ensconced in the safety of her own office again.

Heaven knows that Alex Blake did not want to feel an ounce of sympathy for Erin Strauss. A few weeks ago, she'd agreed to bury the hatchet with the blonde, but really, it was because Erin had been so desperate to make amends, and Alex was finally at a point where she would have said anything to end the phone calls and the "just-dropping-in-to-see-how-you-were-adjusting" visits and the questions and all of Erin's fumbling attempts at cordiality. For years, Erin Strauss had loomed in Alex's imagination as an austere and refined rich bitch, an ice queen with a cold Darwinistic worldview to match, but that evening, as Erin had clutched her folders so tightly that her knuckles paled, her breathing slightly unsteady and those grey eyes filled with hesitation and fear of rejection, Alex had realized that she'd turned a misguided ghost into a villainous vampire. She had experienced a moment of weakness and had softly told Erin that all was forgiven, because she hated seeing people in distress, especially when she could end it, and because she really was past holding a grudge.

But she'd never taken Erin up on that offer for coffee. For Alex, there was a difference between forgiveness and friendship, and while she'd forgiven Erin, she certainly had no interest in becoming that woman's friend ( _fool me once, shame on you...fool me twice, shame on me_ ).

 _Well, shame on me_ , Alex decided, because for some unfathomable reason, she found herself wanting to reach out to the other woman. Over the past few months, she'd noticed a definite change in Erin, had been pleasantly surprised by how the notorious fast-tracker had finally placed herself in front of the bus, rather than throwing the rest of the team under it, had been even more shocked to learn that the blonde was the mastermind behind Dave's surprise party (further proving her suspicion that one should never tell a secret to Penelope Garcia), had watched in slightly-awed curiosity as the years and layers of frost seemed to slip off the woman's face and demeanor in the days following Rossi's birthday (she knew what that meant, but really, she tried not to think about it). But now, the section chief had undergone another drastic change, except this one was much less pleasant. Erin was withdrawn, pale and distracted, floating through the halls of Quantico with her dead doll eyes and still perfectly-coiffed hair and flowing cardigans like some nouveau Lady of Shalott. She was tragic, and Alex discovered that she actually  _pitied_  the woman.

Erin Strauss would probably prefer walking over burning coals after being supremely doused in lighter fluid rather than being pitied.

Still, Alex Blake's mind was made up. If nothing else, she was going to give Erin a little pick-me-up by proving that her amend had been truly accepted.

It was time to take the blonde out to coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could write an entire book on the feelings of grief, anger, sorrow, and loss that accompany the death of a child in such a tragic and sudden way, and how it changes entire families, but that's another story for another time, I suppose. I hope that in this story's brief section on that particular moment of Rossi's life, I have conveyed enough to make you truly understand the sense of outrage and injustice that comes with it as well. Sadly, I think there are some parts of it that cannot be truly expressed with words, but only understood by those who've experienced it. And I hope, dear reader, that you never do.


	24. Realignment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if the show runners ever mentioned this, but I'm pretty sure Blake's character is based upon real-life linguist Donald Wayne Foster, who assisted as a forensic linguist on several criminal cases, including the Unabomber case and the Amerithrax case (both of which our Blake fictitiously assisted on). Foster also "pinned the wrong man" in the Amerithrax case (sound familiar?). He is not an FBI agent, but a professor at Vassar College (how many more points do these two intersect?). You should just know this because…well, because I find it interesting.

_"The pattern of the prodigal is: rebellion, ruin, repentance, reconciliation, restoration."_

_~Edwin Louis Cole._

* * *

**November 2002. New York City, New York.**

_Alex Blake_. The name scratched across the seemingly innocuous signature line screamed the end of all her hopes and dreams. She'd held her breath as she'd signed the transfer papers, just to keep from crying as the hot tears pricked her eyes. Her fortieth birthday was fast approaching, and she'd just admitted defeat in what would very likely be her last battle.

For the past thirteen months, the Amerithrax case had been Alex Blake's waking obsession, her driving force as she spent countless hours searching through travel records and comparing dates and postmarks and forensic signatures. Her husband had threatened to leave, citing that she'd become a woman possessed, unable to simply leave her work at the office at the end of the day, but she'd accepted the fact that her marriage just might have to sacrifice itself for the good of the nation, because she certainly wasn't going to stop until she caught the person or persons responsible. Luckily, it hadn't come to that, because despite his frustration, James truly understood why she was so single-minded in her pursuit, and her marriage was saved. Unluckily, that seemed to be the only crisis that was averted.

She'd made a mistake, but that wasn't the problem. The problem was that the media had turned that honest mistake into a firestorm of self-righteous indignation, fueled by incomplete facts and over-simplified statements, and the Bureau had suddenly decided that it needed to distance itself from the fury. Erin Strauss had chosen her as the fall-guy, had cut her rope and set her adrift on her own in the wide, scary world of unfounded public opinion.

She'd once admired Erin Strauss—a woman who'd fought her way to the top, a section chief who'd proven herself years ago as an analyst and an agent—and even though the woman was only a few years older than her, Alex had seen her as a kind of role model, a worthy goal to attain. They'd worked together a few times, and she'd even thought that she liked Erin as a person—she had that cool, serene wittiness about her, something that made her seem like a street-smart kid in a dazzling socialite body, and a laugh that could shatter silence like glass.

Of course, all of those thoughts and feelings were now gone. She'd known, the instant she began to detect the slightest bit of hesitation from Erin, that she inevitably was going to be fed to the wolves, but Alex had stood her ground, had stuck to her convictions and fought like hell to prove that she was right. Despite the fact that the Bureau was now going in a different direction, deep down Alex still believed that she'd made a good case. Erin's beloved data had lined up perfectly, and Alex couldn't ignore the facts.

And she'd also known, the instant she began to fight against Erin Strauss, that it was a losing battle. For years, she'd admired the older woman's warlike tendencies and ruthless tactics, and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Erin wouldn't hesitate to unleash those talents on her. Still, she'd put up a good fight, because she felt honor-bound to at least try to defend herself—after all, if this was going to be her last stand, why not make it one for the history books?

She cleared her throat, giving a quick jerk of her head to reign in the tears. She was being shipped off to some field office in eastjesusnowhere, to quietly live out the rest of her career, once a shining and illustrious thing, now tarnished and shamed. They hadn't completely removed her from the Bureau. She supposed that was rather magnanimous of them.

Beside her stood John Curtis, a quiet man who'd followed her to the end, along with the rest of their team, who were all being separated and shipped out in some hush-hush diaspora. He gently cleared his throat as he leaned over, his voice shaking Alex from her thoughts as he softly asked, "Agent Blake, may I borrow your pen?"

* * *

**May 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

"She's not feeling well," the thin, young receptionist with impossibly blue eyes informed Alex. "She might be coming down with the flu."

"The flu?" Alex couldn't hide the incredulity in her voice. The beginning of summer wasn't exactly flu season. She saw a flicker of something behind the receptionist's eyes, and suddenly, she understood—this woman cared for Erin Strauss, and she was making polite excuses to screen her visitors.

"Is it an urgent or otherwise important matter?" The younger brunette queried, her tone and body language making it very clear that she didn't want to disturb her boss.

Alex craned her neck slightly, just enough to be able to see through the floor-length glass window next to Erin's door. Through the open blinds, she could see the blonde slumped over a stack of papers, looking absolutely miserable and alone.

"Yes. It's very important," Alex answered. She moved to the door, "In fact, I believe she's expecting me."

She didn't even bother to listen to the protests as she opened the door and entered Erin's office.

Erin was so absorbed in her paperwork that it took a second for her to register the sound of the door opening and closing. She looked up, her expression easily betraying her surprise at the sight of Alex Blake standing in her office.

"Hello," she said quietly, her tone guarded and lightly laced with confusion.

Suddenly, Alex lost her sense of certainty. Unsure of what else to say, she simply replied, "Hello."

"Is there…is there something I can do for you, Agent Blake?" Erin slowly removed her reading glasses, setting them atop the papers.

"Yes, there is, actually," Alex tucked her hands into the back pockets of her slacks. She realized that Erin Strauss would see right through her friendly offer and would probably end up being pissed as hell for the obvious pity behind it, but it was too late to back out now. "You offered to meet for coffee a few months ago, and now I'm taking you up on it."

Those doll eyes widened just a fraction of an inch, but her tone remained cool, "You came up here to invite me to coffee?"

"Yes."

"Why now?" Erin was unbelievably, impossibly still, as if everything weighed on Alex's response.

"Because," the brunette took a deep breath before locking her brown eyes onto Erin's green ones. "Because you look like someone who could use a cup of coffee."

The section chief didn't miss the true meaning behind her agent's words, but she was obviously relieved that Alex was choosing to speak in code, because her shoulders relaxed again and her eyes lost their wary look.

"I'd like that." She admitted softly. "I'd like that very much."

"Great," Alex gave a curt nod. "Well, I'll, uh—I guess we could try sometime—"

"The director wants the team back in the field by tomorrow," Erin interrupted gently. "My guess is that you'll be traveling for the next few days. But we could set something up, whenever you get back?"

"Sounds good," the brunette agreed. With a slight gesture towards the papers, she added, "Well, I guess I'll let you get back to work."

She turned to go. Erin's voice stopped her.

"Alex?"

Blake turned back to her section chief. The smallest of smiles danced at the corner of Erin's mouth.

"Thank you."

The brunette simply nodded in return, offering a small smile of her own before opening the door and disappearing, just as quickly and quietly as she'd entered.

The receptionist was giving Alex a look that walked a thin line between concern and anger, but Alex merely smiled as she breezed past—her smile deepening when she felt the younger woman shifting behind her, moving to Erin's office to check on her boss.

Regardless of whatever dark and unknown thing had happened between Strauss and Rossi, Erin was still surrounded by good people, who would take care of her. And Dave was, too. Now she had a foot in both camps, so to speak, and Alex knew it might be a problem later on, but for now, she felt that it was worth the risk. Her mother had always taught her that compassion was the most important virtue, and she didn't think either of them would begrudge her showing some kindness to their former lover.

_Former_. The word sounded so sad, so wistful and final. Whenever the team had first begun to suspect that there was something brewing between Strauss and Rossi, Alex Blake had probably been the least surprised—aside from Hotch, who, like Alex, remembered the old days, back when the two used to work side-by-side. Their fights had been legendary, and people had blown up tales of their mutual animosity to epic proportions, but as someone who'd had a ringside seat to a few of the biggest battles, Alex had known the hatred between them wasn't real.

Over the years, over the telling and retelling, the true story had lost certain parts. And the parts of the story that everyone else forgot, the pieces that fell by the wayside during the spinning of the legend, were all the little quiet moments in-between. She remembered that during a case in Boston, David always seemed to have sour lemon candies in his coat pocket—Erin was suffering through the first few weeks of morning sickness during her first pregnancy, and for some reason, those candies soothed her—and sometimes, Alex would catch Erin's hand slipping into Dave's pocket. It always seemed so natural, so strangely intimate, that she felt like she shouldn't be watching, but she always did, because it fascinated her that two people who could scream at each other for hours over the minutest tactical decision could just as easily slip into sharing candy like an old married couple. It fascinated her that David could groan and complain and yell about Erin's damned logic and her equally damnable analyses, but at the end of every day, he put more candies in his coat pocket for her, because he knew that they made her feel better. It fascinated her that Erin could huff and puff and bellow about David's questionable ethics and lack of respect for protocol and her damned analyses, but she still reached into his pocket with the unwavering certainty that he was still looking out for her, even in the smallest of ways.

Of course, Alex also remembered the snickers and side-comments and little jokes about what must really go on between those two, behind closed doors ( _she acts like a bitch but she fucks like a tiger_ ), but she'd dismissed them as simply strange little fantasies dreamt up by her male coworkers. Sure, there had always seemed to be tension crackling between the two, and sometimes there was a strong undercurrent that could definitely be described as sexual, but Alex had thought that they were both too proud to admit to such a thing, much less act on it (although there were a few times when she was certain that they went back to their respective hotel rooms and thought rather impure thoughts about their colleague).

Looking back, Alex decided that there had always been a strange fluidity in Dave and Erin's relationship, a unique way that they pushed and pulled and always came back together, and she felt an odd sadness at the thought that it wasn't that way anymore. Her reaction surprised her, because really, why should she care about what happened between them?

The answer came easily, though it still shocked her—she cared, because she'd seen some kind of hope in it. If Erin and Dave could literally reduce one another to shrieking pillars of fury, and yet still be able to quietly move forward and look past the hurts and insults and differences, then it was a symbol of hope for other relationships. After all, Alex didn't fight with her husband like that (well, when they were first married, there might have been a few blowouts that rivaled an old Strauss/Rossi grudge match, but that was years ago), so how much easier it should be for her to forgive him, and vice versa, if Erin could forgive Dave's mistakes, and he forgave hers. They had been a living testament to the idea that nothing was unforgivable, but now, they were becoming the opposite. The realization filled Blake with a weary sadness.

And in yet another shocking turn of events, she found herself hoping that they somehow found a way to move past whatever this thing was between them. She found herself actually hoping that Erin Strauss would fall back in love with an equally happy David Rossi.

She probably needed to have her head checked.

* * *

"So you're going with Detroit." Erin Strauss intoned softly, making it a statement rather than a question.

"Yes, ma'am," Penelope Garcia replied. After a few blissful weeks of finally feeling comfortable around the older woman, she suddenly felt awkward and uncertain again, because Erin was so obviously hurting and Penelope didn't know what to say, or even if she should say anything at all. She always was a deeply empathic person—she easily felt others' pain, and right now, she felt Erin's sorrow and weariness and worry, and it weighed on her shoulders like a ton of bricks.

"It's a good choice," her section chief decreed, taking another moment to survey the file down the full length of her classical nose before taking off her reading glasses and turning her attention back to Garcia. It was already after eight; most of the team members were gone for the day, and though it meant wasting twelve precious hours by waiting until the morning, Erin couldn't bring herself to ask JJ and Aaron to leave their sons in the dead of the night (not like this, not when everything was changed and so uncertain). Still, she'd make up for the lost time as much as possible, "Coordinate with Detroit PD so that our team can get to work the instant the plane lands. Brief them first thing tomorrow morning—as early as possible. But for now, I'd like to let the team to get one more night's rest before we fling them back into the field."

There was something unsettling about that metaphor, and Penelope's concern was evident. Erin's expression softened as she tried to reassure the younger woman, "They'll be safe. They're all highly-trained and very smart; they know how to protect themselves in the field."

However, Erin's smile didn't reach her eyes, which still held such blatant fear that Penelope knew she was lying to them both.

Erin took a moment to survey her surroundings—normally, she would simply have this meeting via teleconference, happily seated at her desk, looking over copies of the files as Garcia stated her reasoning for whichever one she chose from the safety of her own lair. Since the party-planning, there had been a few face-to-face appearances, whenever Penelope simply stopped by Erin's office on the way to her briefings. But today, she'd needed to get away, and the novelty of Penelope Garcia's strange little world was a welcome and much-needed distraction.

She liked the fact that anyone could walk into the room and instantly get a sense of Penelope's personality. It was a whimsical oasis amidst the darkness of their work. There was a time when Erin Strauss would have thought that it was unprofessional, but now she found it comforting. Penelope Garcia never tried to be anything or anyone other than herself. It was a trait to be admired.

"I know that's true, ma'am," Penelope was speaking again, breaking into Erin's thoughts. Her cadence was quick and choppy, a sure sign that she was fighting back a wave of tears. "I mean, I know they're smart, and I know they know how to take care of themselves, but what my mind knows and what my heart feels are two very different things, I can't help but—"

The older woman stopped her by reaching over and gently placing her hand over Penelope's, stilling the tech analyst's trembling limbs.

"There's nothing wrong with that," Erin spoke softly. In typical Strauss fashion, she added, "So long as you don't allow it to keep you from doing your job and doing your best to help them."

Penelope nodded quickly, taking a deep breath to steady herself. Erin gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before rising to her feet, lightly tossing the case file onto the desk and resuming an air of all business, "I will inform the director of your decision to go with Detroit. I doubt he'll be pleased that I'm not sending the team out until tomorrow, but quite frankly, his happiness not my priority right now."

The younger blonde fought back a grin. She used to think Strauss was scary. Now she was just adorable and feisty. And sad, though she was hiding it well now. Penelope wanted to ask how she was doing, but she knew that it would cross so many lines, and though she found the older woman adorable right now, she was certain that Erin would retreat back into her Ice Queen mode—she didn't have to be a profiler to understand a coping mechanism when she saw it. Once she'd gotten to know Erin, Penelope had realized that they were very similar. She used her quirky individualism as a shield, the same way that Erin used her frozen persona—it was a means to protect all the soft, gushy feelings underneath, the feelings that could be used to wound and manipulate. Their actions came from the same place of fear, though the results put them on opposite ends of the spectrum.

With a soft farewell and a small smile, Erin Strauss left Garcia's office and began the trek back to her own. It was odd, how much more at-peace she felt, simply being surrounded by the younger woman's perky and comforting presence. She was amused to think that just a few short months ago, she would have dreaded any interaction with the woman whom she was certain wasn't very stable, with those strange outfits and that bizarre hair and those overly emotive ways that surely couldn't be true feelings. Of course, the better she got to know Penelope, the more she was reminded of her eldest daughter. And she'd also realized that Penelope Garcia was one of the most stable people she'd ever met—given her past (her parents, her near-death experiences, the losses she'd suffered as colleagues left or were killed in action) and her current job position (actively choosing when and how to send the little family she'd created in the BAU back into the underbelly of humanity, into danger and possible death), she was remarkably sane and well-adjusted.

Erin's mind invariably returned to David (it was like a loop, that way—everything and everyone reminded her of him). He still hadn't spoken to her since the day that they realized the Replicator had to know about their mutual past, but she knew that he was still distant and distracted and not at all ready to be back in the field.

He'd actually surprised her—she'd expected him to have already come to her, demanding that they tell Christopher the truth, at which point she would have to sit down with Paul and quietly tear down the foundations of his world (again). But he still hadn't approached her, still hadn't made a decision, and she wasn't sure what that meant.

Maybe getting back in the field would be therapeutic for him, maybe it would clear his head, force him to think about something else for a while, maybe give him some new perspective. Over the past few days, she'd certainly gained perspective—just as with her relationship with David, Erin suddenly realized that nothing was guaranteed when it came to her children. Once Chris learned the truth, he may not want to be around her anymore; Jordan and Anna may react the same way as well. Until then, she was soaking up as much time with them as possible. It had been so long since Chris and Jordan had lived under her roof, and she enjoyed getting to see them on a daily basis again, actually liked being able to cook larger meals and having someone with whom to discuss events in the newspaper (something she didn't do with Anna, who much preferred to talk about her friends or the latest episode of her favorite show). And though Anna and Paul were still in Somerset, she spoke to them every night (and every night Paul asked her if they were any closer, and she answered that they weren't, sadly).

As if on-cue, her cell buzzed in the pocket of her dress, and she fished it out, barely glancing at the caller ID (she knew it would be Paul) before answering, "Hey."

"Erin." There was something strange in Paul's voice.

"What is it? Is everything OK?" She stopped walking, physically bracing herself.

"Everything's fine," he assured her, and she let out a deep breath of relief. "It's just….Anna wants to come home. And so do I."

"Oh."

"We aren't any safer here than we would be in D.C."

"I suppose you have a point," she admitted softly. "We can't just stay locked away from the world forever."

"We're agreed then?"

"Agreed," she gave a curt nod, feeling some level of gratitude that Paul still let her have some say in the decision.

"And Erin?" His voice sounded timid, uncertain. "I would like to…I think it would be best—I, I'm not sure how to say this. I would like to spend as much time as I can with the kids. I guess this has really made me re-evaluate my priorities."

"I understand. There shouldn't be any problem—Chris' detail just goes wherever he goes, so if he's at your place—"

"No, Erin, that isn't what I meant," Paul interrupted softly. "I would like to spend time with the kids…and with you."

"Oh." She wasn't sure what else to say. "I, uh, I'm not sure what—"

"It would just be me, coming over for dinner every night. I'd go home afterwards." He was speaking quickly now, trying to put her at-ease. "I'm not trying to imply anything more than that. I just want us all to be together while we can—I think it would be good, for the kids, for all of us."

"No—I mean, yes, you're absolutely right," she stumbled over her words, trying to sort out the weird reaction that his proposal had on her.

"I just wanted to talk to you about it, to make sure you were OK with me coming to the house."

"Of course I am, Paul," she regained her mental footing. "The five of us are still a family regardless of….despite whatever we two are or aren't."

"Good." She could hear the smile of relief in his voice. "We'll pack our bags and leave in the morning."

"I'm still at Quantico," she informed him, rounding the corner to her office. "I've got a few more things to do, then I'm heading back to the house. I'll call you when I get home."

She hung up as she breezed into the reception area, where Carrington was gathering her things and getting ready to leave as well.

"Everything OK?" Carrington asked, her big blue eyes never missing a single nuance of Erin's moods.

"I'm not sure," she answered truthfully. She stopped, taking a beat to think. "I'm not sure, but I think it is."

"Well, believing's half the battle, isn't it?" The younger woman offered a warm smile.

Maybe she was right.

* * *

**August 2011. Washington, D.C.**

_Alex Blake._  Those nine simple letters formed a Molotov cocktail inside John Curtis' brain. Erin Strauss had submitted a short list of replacements for the recently deceased SSA Emily Prentiss, whose position was currently being filled by a cadet with no real training or experience. At the top of the list was a very familiar name. But it wasn't just the name that surprised John—it was all the things that followed it.  _Intelligence and intuition well-suited to the work of the BAU. The most capable and logical choice._

Coming from Erin Strauss, those words were like a parade in honor of Agent Blake. He couldn't believe that after all those years, Strauss was turning herself into a champion for the same woman she'd let take the fall for the Amerithrax case.

_The most capable and logical choice_. He fought back a sardonic laugh at the words. Blake was a good agent, there was no doubt about that, but she wasn't the best—and she certainly didn't compare to his own impressive resume and superior intellect. How could Erin say such things, knowing they were lies? How could she have forgotten about  _him_? Once, Erin Strauss had quipped that he wasn't just the smartest man in the room, but the smartest man in the Bureau—that had been years ago, even before his exile to Kansas, but how could she forget? How was he not the first option that popped into her mind?

He wasn't even supposed to be reading this—it was a private communique between Erin, the director, and a few others in the Justice Department—but John always had a pressing need to know everything, and he found it useful to read classified documents from time to time. It was his insurance plan against any future disgrace or degradation. Of course, that made him sound like some kind of double-agent in a Cold War spy film, but experience had taught John Curtis that the Bureau didn't always play by the rules. This list of names only furthered the realization that he obviously did not owe the FBI any loyalty, since they refused to acknowledge him, treating him like some bastard stepchild to be swept under a rug and never mentioned.

Of course, this list was just a preliminary formality—the vetting process could take weeks, and it could be months before a transfer was even made. Still, this was unsettling on so many levels. He actually could have handled the slight, if Blake hadn't been on the list. He could have told himself that he wasn't considered because of the Amerithrax debacle (because that's what Erin made it look like, a fumble, a mistake, a  _failure_ ). But Alex Blake  _was_  on the list, which meant that past mistakes weren't even a consideration. If Blake was on the list, then he should be, too—and he should be the one at the top, with Erin's hard-earned praises trailing behind his name like a battle standard, decreeing to the Bureau his obvious superiority over all other candidates.

He deleted the document from his hard drive. If only it were so easy to delete from his mind. He was going to have to keep a close watch on the events unfolding at Quantico. If Alex Blake were given the coveted position, then he would be honor-bound to prove to Erin Strauss—and to the world—that she had made a grave mistake in not choosing him.

_Ungrateful, spoiled children, all of them_. Treating their best and brightest like shiny toys, to be tossed aside whenever something new came along. Erin Strauss was the worst of them—she devoured people like a locomotive devoured coal, quickly and hotly and without thinking, because it was simply the creature she was. She thought she was some untouchable god, like all the other top brass at the Bureau—they all thought that they could just demolish and discard people, thought that their actions didn't have consequences, thought that their position and their power made them safe from retribution.

They were wrong.


	25. Splits in the Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogue between Blake and Rossi in the morgue are not my own words—they are the work of Breen Frazier, who wrote the episode from whence that scene comes (8.22 #6). Also, thanks to Mantegna and Tripplehorn for adding the lovely little moment at the end of that scene (the fist bump), which inspired this section.

_"Family quarrels are bitter things. They don't go according to any rules. They're not like aches or wounds, they're more like splits in the skin that won't heal because there's not enough material."_

_~F. Scott Fitzgerald._

* * *

**May 2013. Detroit, Michigan.**

"So, when we get back home, I'm going to have coffee with Erin."

These were the first words that had been spoken between them since they had deboarded the plane. Dave hadn't said a word as they got into the black SUV, choosing instead to focus on the coroner's reports that Garcia had given them before they left while Alex drove. It wasn't a strained silence—whenever they worked as partners, there were often large gaps of quietness between them, because they both needed the time to reflect and absorb, and it worked quite well for them.

She felt Dave take a long, silent breath before he carefully replied, "And why do you think I need to know this?"

"Because you just do." She answered, her tone equally cautious as she kept her eyes focused on the street. She honestly wasn't sure why she felt that he needed to know, but still, she wanted him to know. They'd known each other for a very long time, and though they didn't share every aspect of their lives, when it came to the job, they were always open with each other. After another small silence, she added, "I don't know what this thing is between you two right now, and I don't need to know—I just don't want you to think that I'm choosing sides."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod in understanding. She didn't voice the rest of her thoughts—she didn't need the details, but Dave did need to talk to someone, because his whole noble silence thing wasn't working. He still looked like hell, as if he'd aged a decade overnight, and his usually outgoing personality had all but disappeared. She missed the old Dave, the one who sometimes scared her with his hair-trigger temper and his unpredictable tactics, but who always had a wink and a quick joke, who always was her comrade, her friend, who somehow made the darkness bearable.

Giving him a quick glance, Alex decided that he actually looked better today—being on the trail again seemed to suit him.

The old David Rossi was definitely still there, because after another beat of silence, he spoke again, his tone lightly laced with his former playful air, "You said you're not choosing sides, but if you had to choose—"

"You, all the way," she answered before he could even ask, with such certainty and conviction that she was obviously pretending to suck-up to him. He laughed, and she smiled, silently grateful that her joke had eased some of the tension.

David turned his attention back to the file. Sure, he'd deflected the seriousness of the conversation with a joke, but deep down, he still felt a wave of sadness. Alex talked about the matter as if it were one of the regular old battles between them— _choosing sides_ , as if there would be a big show-down at the end. But this wasn't a fight at all. This was simply two people standing over a broken thing, unsure of what to do or how to fix it, or even if they wanted it to be fixed.

Distance was a good thing. It gave perspective. Being away from Quantico was a good thing, because it meant being away from Erin's constant presence, which followed him around like an insistent ghost, slipping through the moments of his day like smoke, curling into his brain at strange times, distracting his thoughts and overwhelming his mind.

His office was no longer his sanctuary—it was the place where Erin had fought with him again, had re-established that connection, the place where he'd held her as she'd cried in fear for Christopher, where he'd held her hand and softly told her that everything was going to be alright. The conference room was filled with memories of her as well, the little looks between briefings, the slight clashes across the table. Every hallway, every room seemed possessed.

Even his house had been overtaken by her. His bedroom still pulsed with her scent and her heat at night, his bed was always cold from her absence every morning, his kitchen seemed suddenly too quiet and too large without her beside him, his foyer still carried the electric shock of her sudden appearance the night of his birthday, his living room still held the quiet weight of her fear as she revealed her darkest secret to him.

Detroit held no memory of Erin Strauss, and that was helpful, except for the fact that Alex Blake suddenly decided that she wanted to talk about the blonde. However, he understood Blake's reasons for mentioning Erin, and to his relief, she'd graciously let the topic go.

The problem was that he couldn't stay in Detroit forever. Eventually he would return to the places that held the remembrance of things past, and he would have to learn to deal with those sorrowful demons all over again. He still didn't know what he was going to do—despite the anger and hurt he felt towards Erin for holding such a deep, life-changing secret from him, he still didn't want to hurt her (that need to please and shelter her had been ingrained in him for decades now, because he was so used to acquiescing to her desires for years, and now he found that it was a hard habit to break). And worse than his desire to protect her was the fact that he actually understood why she did it. He didn't want to understand. He didn't want to notice how careful Erin had been around him, or how she hadn't pushed or asked him what he was going to do (it was such a shift from their previous ways, when Erin called all the shots and he simply accepted whatever she chose), didn't want to notice or be affected by her sad silence and the realization that she was hurting for him, that she seemed truly penitent for what she'd done.

All these feelings and truths would have to be dealt with, eventually. But for now, he could push it all aside and just focus on the bodies in front of them.

Alex put the SUV in park, effectively jolting David from his thoughts. He looked over at the brunette, who was watching him expectantly. He offered a small smile, "Let's do this."

She gave a curt nod of agreement as they both got out of the vehicle, closing their doors at the same time with a heavy thud, which filled Alex with an odd sense of satisfaction. She liked it when they were moving in tandem, it made her feel safe and assured, and with everything that had happened over the past few weeks with the Replicator, those feelings were becoming more and more valuable to Alex Blake.

Dave was beside her, walking down the cool, empty hall which echoed with their footsteps. Each step felt like another small piece clicking into place.

Alex took a deep breath as they entered the morgue—she always hated the smell, even after all these years, it was still something that made her stomach churn and her lungs automatically stiffen in protest. The medical examiner greeted them and quickly began rehashing the facts of the case with them. After a few preliminary questions, the two agents realized that something was off—the wives had diagonal entry wounds, while the husbands' wounds were straight, which implied the UNSUB was taller than the wife but shorter than the husband. The problem with this logic was that the first couple was 5'11" and 6'2", and the second couple was 5'4" and 5'8". It didn't make sense. Alex felt a familiar prickle in the back of her subconscious.

She set down her folder, turning back to Dave, "Alright, face me."

He did as she asked.

"Put your right hand up." Again, he obeyed, and she bent her knees, bringing herself down to the appropriate height, "I'm the wife, I'm 5'4". Stab me in the chest."

He made a slow motion stab, "Bam."

It was a diagonal entry, just like the stab wounds on each of the female victims.

"But I do the same to you," Alex moved her fist to his chest. It was a straight entry wound. There was another moment of things clicking into place as they both reached the same conclusion.

"This is why he takes couples," Dave surmised, and she nodded in agreement.

"He wants them to hurt each other."

Dave pulled his fist back from Alex's shoulder, but held it out for a congratulatory fist bump, to which she happily obliged, fighting back at smile—that little action was the final piece falling into place, the final click locking it all into full sync.

David Rossi was back in action.

* * *

**May 2005. Nantucket, Massachusetts.**

"Elaine...Elaine...Elaine, are you listening to me?"

The harsh insistency of her father's voice caused Erin's head to snap around, her brow furrowing in confusion. They'd been sitting quietly on the sandy knoll behind the house, watching the tide roll in, surrounded by the peaceful sounds of the sea and the sky. He was seated in a worn wooden beach chair and she was at his feet, her own feet happily burrowed in the sand. Over the years, they'd spent many hours, sitting just like this. It was familiar and comforting, and Erin had let her mind drift, not paying attention to her father's voice.

"Holy hell, woman, are you going deaf?" He demanded, his frustration having an unpleasant effect on his eldest daughter's nervous system. She'd always been a daddy's girl, and the slightest hint of displeasure from her father always filled her with some irrational fear of losing his love. Though she was a full-grown adult and she'd gone head-to-head with him several times during her life, her first visceral reaction was always the same.

He gave another heavy sigh, "Elaine, I have asked you three times when the kids are getting here."

"Daddy," Erin felt a wave of concern. "Daddy, I'm Erin."

Now it was her father's turn to look confused, and then suddenly, a light snapped in his eyes.

"I know," he said defensively. "But your name's Erin  _Elaine_ , isn't it?"

"Well, yes, but you've never called me that—"

"I'll call you whatever the hell I want," he growled, and Erin immediately fell silent, ducking her head at his reprimanding tone. Her father was seventy-six years old, but he still had the formidable fire of his youth whenever he was angered, and a childhood spent cowering under his verbal tirades had conditioned Erin to become very, very quiet, and very, very still whenever he raised his voice.

He turned his weathered face back to the overcast horizon, folding his arms over his chest in a defensive gesture. A beat passed before he spoke again, "So, when are the kids getting here?"

"They all went into town," she answered, forcing a lighter note into her tone. "They're just getting the things for the barbeque; they'll be back soon."

"I know where they went and I know what they're doing," he groused again, this time sounding a little less harsh. "I simply asked when they were going to return."

"I don't know."

"That should have been your answer the first time, Erin." This time, he used her proper name. "How many times have I told you—keep things concise and to-the-point. Don't waste time with the unnecessary. I don't know how you've survived all those depositions and federal hearings, with the way you ramble on."

Her mouth pressed into a thin line before she quietly answered, "We can't all be lawyers, Daddy."

"You certainly couldn't," he sniffed, as if it were a great insult, forgetting the fact that after so many years on the other side of the bench, he'd come to abhor most attorneys and their pompous, superfluous speeches. Erin was smart enough not to point that out.

With one last wistful look at the water, Erin rose to her feet.

"Where are you going?"

"Inside," she stated flatly. She couldn't resist the extra barb. "I didn't announce my intentions because I felt it would be unnecessary. I thought a man of your acumen would figure it out, once I started walking towards the house."

He gave her a baleful look, but it was followed by a begrudging smile. She was his firstborn, his little girl of blood and fire, in so many ways like him, in so many ways unlike him. Even in this slightly antagonistic moment, he adored her, adored what she had become, what she had achieved, and she loved him, loved what he had been, what he had given her, what he had molded her to be. With an arched brow and an amused smile of her own, she walked back to the house. He had been an ass, and they both knew it, and she had told him that, without actually saying it, and they both knew that, too. Somehow, it was all alright. That was how they'd always been, ever since she was old enough and willful enough to oppose him, and perhaps that was part of the reason that she was his favorite (he'd never tell her that, never tell the others that, but his wife, his Elaine, had said so, many times before she passed away, but it was never an accusation, merely a statement of fact— _she's the most like you, that's why you love her so_ ).

Erin's smile disappeared once she entered the house. Taking a moment to dust the sand from her bare feet, she padded into the kitchen, where Carole was busy preparing lunch.

Carole Ann Breyer Drake was one of those perpetually unhappy people. She had a good life (a husband, two darling children, a dog and a picket fence and a house in the suburbs), she'd been given a good education (Ivy League colleges all the way, charm school and Catholic school, just like Erin), and she'd had a relatively idyllic childhood, had all the advantages that came from wealth and good breeding, and yet, she always looked as if someone had sucked every ounce of joy from her soul. Though her three siblings remembered their mutual childhood with warmth, she seemed to view the past as a desolate wasteland of bitterness and abandonment.

Carole, at least in her own opinion, had her reasons for feeling so persecuted. Years ago, Erin had taken a long, hard look at her younger sister, and had relatively pinpointed the source of Carole's unhappiness—it stemmed from the simple fact that, of all four Breyer progeny, she'd never once felt special. As the eldest, Erin was special by virtue of her birth rank, though her career accomplishments and the fact that she held four degrees and now was a high ranking Bureau official had only added to her overachieving adored-by-all status. Then there was Peter, the second child but the first son, the long-awaited prize, who'd gone on to be a formidable district attorney, then later a great defense lawyer (once hailed as the Clarence Darrow of Virginia, in a local publication). In the middle was Carole, neither first child, nor first son or daughter, with no marks of patriotic distinction, no illustrious career. At the end of the line was Andrew, the golden-haired baby of the family, the charming and well-beloved Senator from Massachusetts.

Instead of politics and national servitude, Carole had chosen a quiet life, and honestly, the only person who had a problem with her choice was Carole herself. Her feelings of inferiority caused her to lash out, and her easiest target was her elder sister, because at least she could prove herself to be the better wife, the better mother, the better housekeeper, the better cook. Her competitive nature drove Erin insane, and she tried not to engage her sister in those catty comparisons, but as anyone with siblings can understand, our sisters and brothers often know how to bring out the child within us in the worst of ways.

Erin immediately inserted herself into the preparations, despite her sister's huff at the intrusion.

"Have you noticed that Dad seems to be… _slipping_  a bit lately?" Erin tried to keep her tone conversational as she began washing the cabbage that was sitting near the sink.

Carole didn't look up from the sandwiches that she was making, "He's been that way for months now, Erin."

She could hear the unspoken accusation in her sister's voice ( _you would know that if you were around, if you weren't busy being wonder-woman and showing the world how amazing you are_ ).

"Has he been to see a doctor?"

"Of course he's been to see a doctor. What do you think I am?" Carole's voice was practically a growl now.

Erin waited for her sister to elaborate, but of course she didn't (that would be too helpful, too nice, because Carole always loved having the power to make Erin beg, even over matters as serious as this). Using every ounce of self-control not to snap, Erin pushed, "Well?"

"What do you think it is, Erin? He's got Alzheimer's."

Erin felt her stomach clench at the diagnosis. Her hands stopped their movements and she slowly turned to look at her sister, who was making her damn sandwiches as nonchalantly as if they were talking about the weather, though Erin could feel the anger and blame radiating off Carole's narrow shoulders.

Carole was acting this way because it was the only way she knew how to react—it was the only way Erin knew how to react as well. Their go-to emotion whenever fear or danger called was anger. That was their mother's fault, she knew, because that was the type of woman she was. She had loved her children and adored her husband, but she had never known how to handle the tumbling, rolling emotions that encompassed that love, had never known how to express herself in a way that was healthier or less destructive.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Erin took a step closer, fighting the urge to grab her sister, to make her stop moving, to make her stop acting as if the world hadn't just stopped spinning.

"Because we are handling it," came Carole's succinct reply, the threat rumbling just beneath the surface. She set the plate of sandwiches on the other side of the island with a little more force than necessary.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Erin's words came sharp and fast, cutting at her sister's turned back.

"It means we are handling it." Carole stated, her tone matching Erin's as she turned to give her sister one of her bitterest glares. "We don't need you to come in and fix it, Erin."

There it was—the unwitting truth. This was Carole's attempt to prove that there was something she could do better than her older sister. For the first time, their father needed a caretaker, and Carole wanted to be his heroine, his champion, his darling child who loved him enough to care for him in his decaying health.

Erin wanted to cry for her poor little sister, for her pathetic attempts to garner some recognition by using their father's illness. She stepped forward again, her tone softening, "Carole, this isn't something that can be fixed. Don't you think that I deserve to know what's happening to my own father?"

"If you ever spent any time with him, then you would've known something was wrong  _months_ ago, Erin," her sister spat. "If you weren't so damn busy playing secret agent and neglecting your family, then you would know. But the truth is: you didn't want to know, because you didn't want to ruin your pristine little life and your perfect little career."

There was a beat of ugly silence as Erin's younger sister's barb hit her mark. Erin took a deep breath, every muscle in her body tensing with the familiar fight-or-flight reflex.

"That was completely uncalled for," Erin's voice was low, trembling with anger and hurt.

"But that doesn't make it any less true," Carole shot back, though her earlier bravado was crumbling under her elder sister's gaze. Years of fighting with Erin had told her that she'd pushed too far, and there was no mistaking the way that Erin's body tensed as she tried to contain the pure violence and righteous indignation that shivered through her muscles like heat lighting on an open prairie.

Part of her actually wanted Erin to strike her, to leave a mark, so that when their husbands and brothers and children returned, everyone could see what her sister was truly capable of.  _Let Paul see what his adored and beloved wife is really like. Let Daddy see what his precious golden girl can do. Let them all see_.

Erin simply stood there, her mind unable to comprehend what she could have done to make her younger sister hate her so.

The moment was broken by the sound of the front door opening. A few seconds later, Peter appeared, tall and tanned and the epitome of their father, smiling as he announced, "The Apostles are back!"

Carole's husband was named Philip, so with the addition of Peter, Andrew, and Paul, the men liked to joke about their common Biblical connection.

Peter's smile disappeared the instant he felt the tension in the room. Carole's blood boiled at the small motion of his hand reaching for Erin's elbow—he didn't even know what the hell had happened, and he was already choosing sides (he always chose Erin, even when she was wrong). With a quick shake of her head, Erin brushed past her brother, disappearing down the hall.

Torn between the two women, Peter glanced back at his elder sister's retreating form before turning his attention to his younger one. "What happened?"

"What does it matter?" Carole turned to the sink, continuing Erin's original task of washing the cabbage. "You're just going to take her side."

It was so childish and so utterly Carole that Peter simply rolled his eyes. Still, there was some truth in it—of all the Strauss siblings, he and Erin were probably the closest. That was mainly because they were the closest chronologically, only two years apart, compared to the four-year gap between him and Carole, and the six-year gap between Carole and Andrew. They probably understood each other better, and knew each other better, than any other two members of the family, aside from their parents. Peter was the only one who knew about Erin's drinking habits (she'd never been able to hold her liquor, not even when they were rebellious teenagers), and she was the only one who knew about the one time he fell in love with another boy in college (he'd cried when he confessed to her, and she'd simply held him, rocking him gently like a mother, smoothing his hair and letting him cry until there were no more tears).

He would take Erin's side because unlike his younger sister, he knew how to overlook the petty things and how to protect the ones he loved, because she'd always taken care of him, no matter what.

He felt his blood rising as he demanded again, "What did you do, Carole?"

Normally, Carole would take offense to his insinuation that it was her fault, but she felt the same dark threat looming over her that she'd felt with Erin, and really, she was smart enough not to tempt fate twice.

"I told her about father," she gave a slight shrug, as if it weren't a big deal.

Her elder brother felt as if he'd been punched in the gut, "You did what?"

He moved closer, his voice lowering to a dangerous new level, "We agreed that we would tell Erin and Andrew tonight,  _together_."

"Well, she was asking questions, and I didn't see the point in lying to her."

"No, you didn't see the point in wasting a perfectly good opportunity to hurt her," he spat. His face was red now, and not for the first time in his life, he resisted the urge to slap his younger sister's impassive face. "You are one vindictive bitch, Carole, you know that?"

That arrow hit its mark, because she actually flinched. But she quickly resumed her expressionless mask as she softly intoned, "You should go rescue poor little Erin now. Between you, Drew, and Paul, she might not have enough brave knights to rush to her defense."

With another angry sigh, Peter turned away. "I wish I could pity you, Carole, but I think you actually  _like_  playing the persecuted underdog."

He didn't even stay to see if the barb had its desired effect, because, honestly, he didn't give a damn.

* * *

Erin went into her father's study and poured herself a whiskey neat, followed by a second, to calm her nerves. She heard the soft creak of the heavy wooden door, and just by the thoughtful silence, she knew it was Peter.

"You knew, didn't you?" She set the glass down on the dark oak of the wet bar.

"I did," he answered softly. She heard him shuffle across the plush carpet towards her. "I noticed a few weeks ago, at Easter. I said something to Carole, and she took him to the doctor. I wanted…I wanted to be able to tell you and Drew in person, so we decided to wait. We were going to tell you tonight."

"Well, that plan didn't quite work out like you hoped," she commented flatly, turning to face him. Her expression was meticulously blank, and he knew that she had summoned every ounce of self-control to appear so nonchalant.

"Carole's a bitch." He stated.

"She is a very big bitch," she agreed, the corner of her mouth flickering into the ghost of a smile.

"I should have known that she'd pull something like that."

Now she truly offered her brother a gentle smile, "It isn't your fault, Peter. You aren't responsible for her actions, and you don't have to try and shield me from her."

That was the second time today that he'd been accused of being protective of Erin. He simply shrugged, "You would have done the same for me."

"I would have," she agreed softly, closing the gap between them and taking her younger brother into her arms. They simply held each other for a moment, feeling the weight of reality settle into their bones.

"How bad is it?" She asked, almost too fearful to hear the answer.

"It's manageable, for now," he answered honestly. "But they think that in a year or two, we'll have to start looking into some kind of home or assisted living facility. He won't be able to take care of himself for much longer."

She was silent, and he knew what she was thinking, "Erin, I know you've put in your time at the Bureau, and you're eligible for retirement, but don't you dare even consider pushing everything aside to be Dad's full-time caregiver."

"He's our  _father_ , Peter. He raised us. He deserves—"

"He would never forgive you for it," her younger brother interrupted. "He'd be furious with you for abandoning your career, and you know it."

A lump formed in her throat as she acknowledged the truth. She'd had to fight like hell to make him understand why she chose the FBI, but once he'd finally accepted it, he'd been proud of her dedication and her determination, had carefully catalogued all her accomplishments like any father would. If she left that all behind to take care of him, he would feel that she was sacrificing her life for his, and he would be angry. She could hear his voice now,  _If you're going to make a mess of your life, Erin Elaine, then it certainly won't be on my account._

The thought of her father's sacrifice and love brought tears to her eyes.

"We've still got time before we reach that bridge," Peter reminded her gently. She nodded, wiping away the tears and taking a deep breath.

"I need to tell Paul," she announced, and she felt a wave of hesitancy pass through her body. Ever since her mother had died, she'd felt a strange gulf between them (maybe it wasn't that strange, considering that despite their years together, she'd spurned his comfort and had chosen David's instead). Perhaps it was because Paul seemed to say the things that only intensified her distress, rather than soothing it away. There was a time when he knew just what to say, just what to do, but over the past few years, those times were becoming few and far between. She didn't want to tell him about her father, because she knew that he would be kind and sweet and all the things she needed but didn't want.

Most people would gladly run into the arms of their spouse, Erin realized with a pang of guilt. How many times had she been told how lucky she was to have a man like Paul, by envious friends and strangers at dinner parties? How many times had she felt a deep gratitude to the Universe for bringing him into her life, for his gentle calmness and intuitive ways, for how he knew just what to do to remedy a situation? Why did she no longer feel that thankfulness?

Deep down, she knew the answer. After her pregnancy with Christopher, she'd sworn that she would never be with David Rossi again. And yet, when her mother died, she'd launched herself into his arms, into something far darker and more sordid than she'd ever done in the past. The week of her mother's death had been the first time that she'd ever let David come in-between her and her husband—she'd pulled away from Paul, because she didn't want him to see the bruises left by David's hand, didn't want him to know the awful, ugly truth. Before, she'd told herself that she had never lied about her affair, because Paul simply hadn't asked and she simply hadn't told him. But after the second time in Seattle, she'd actively avoided her husband, had been so careful to keep the marks hidden, had made excuses, had  _lied_  to him. That changed everything.

To make matters worse, after last year's horrible encounter with David at Christmas, she and Paul had returned home, drunk and happy (though David's face had stayed at the back of her mind, quietly fraying her thoughts), and when they'd fallen into bed, she'd closed her eyes and pretended that it was someone else's hands on her flesh, someone with a darker complexion, with a more irritating personality, someone whose mere presence was enough to set her soul on fire. She'd never done that before, and she had felt horrified (though she hadn't stopped, not until the lovely blinding thrill of her orgasm). That night, a gulf was created between them, and she had hoped that she was the only one who saw it, because she certainly didn't want to have to talk about it or why it was there.

Still, he was her husband, her life partner, her chosen traveling companion, and he needed to know what was happening to her father, to the grandfather of his children. With a heavy sigh, she went off in search of Paul.

They went for a walk along the beach, and she told him the news. He held her and kissed the top of her head, and part of her wished that she could ask for more from him, but she didn't dare. Later that night, when everyone else was asleep and he was moving inside of her, their hips slowly keeping time with the sound of the waves that rolled in from open window, she cried—cried for the world that was slowly changing around them, cried for golden halo that was becoming tarnished by time, cried for all that was lost, for all that would never be again, for the helpless feeling in her chest at the realization that the foundations of everything she knew were slowly crumbling around her.

* * *

**May 2013. Washington D.C.**

"If I had to choose a moment that was the beginning of the end for me, I think that was it. I'd always used alcohol as an excuse for everything—to escape stress, to unwind, to celebrate a big event, to say farewell to a retiring colleague; pretty much if there was a way to have alcohol involved, I found it," Erin admitted with a self-conscious smile. The other people in the room gave small sardonic smiles of understanding—after all, they knew this path better than anyone else. She continued, "But really, though I fit the definition of an alcoholic for years, I was a highly functional one, and I never let it affect my life…well, at least I didn't think that I did, at the time….but after learning about my father's Alzheimer's, my drinking became heavier. And it rose, in correlation with the amount of stress that I felt as I watched the strongest, most amazing man I ever knew, slip away, piece by piece."

She took another deep breath, "In 2011, everything began to truly fall apart as my father's condition began rapidly deteriorating. In April of that year, my daughter asked me to seek help. Until that moment, I truly didn't think that I had a problem—and even then, I thought she was overreacting. But when your kid is standing in front of you, tears in her eyes as she begs you to get help, well….well, you do whatever you can to heal the hurt you've caused, to right the damage you've inflicted, because you're supposed to be the one that takes care of them, not vice versa. By that time, my father was needing around-the-clock care and my siblings and I were trying to be with him as much as possible, so I also knew that I needed to get my head on straight, to be able to deal with it all. So I checked into a 28 day program, did the whole shebang, and walked away thinking that I'd done my duty. I'd gotten rid of this bad habit—that's what I still saw it as, a habit, not an actual problem or a disease—and I could get back to life as normal. Three months later, just after the nine-year anniversary of my mother's death, I lost my father. And still, I didn't pick up a bottle. I thought that there was nothing more that could happen to me, that losing my parents was the last really bad thing that would happen, because that was what was fair. I forgot that life isn't fair."

She looked down at her hands again, slightly readjusting her watch. "Then…then my baby brother announced that he had been diagnosed with Stage III liver cancer, and it was like the ground beneath my feet just opened up and swallowed me whole. Andrew was the baby, the golden child, this bright and beautiful boy whose whole life had just been this smooth, perfect path to success and adoration. He had just turned forty years old; he still had so much life left ahead of him."

She fell silent for a moment as her mind traveled down the paths of yesteryear. They used to always joke that he would be President one day. And suddenly—just like that—all those jokes were gone, all those promises, all those unwavering faiths in the surety of tomorrow. She had been twelve years old by the time Andrew was born, so she saw him as something closer to her own child instead of a brother.

"I was just devastated." Erin admitted softly. She shook her head sadly, "It was so horribly unfair—he'd never been a big drinker, he'd been a total health nut, and just a good guy. And here I was, a raging alcoholic, a regular shit of a person, and somehow my liver was healthier than his, and my life was longer. I couldn't…I didn't understand how the world could be so cruel. I became embittered and angry—and naturally, I slipped back into the bottle, because I didn't want any part of a reality that was so tragic and unjust."

The woman sitting next to her, Cathy, made a small noise of understanding deep in her throat. It was strange, how comforting that little sound was, how much grief and compassion and empathy was contained within a single hum.

Erin took a moment to look around the room again, her eyes scanning for something more than just sympathy and empathy. For the past four days, she'd been attending meetings—sometimes twice a day, if her schedule allowed. The director had been so pleased that she'd taken his suggestion to heart, and she didn't dare tell him what she was really doing.

She was looking for the bastard who had tried to use her own son as a weapon against her, like a pawn in some twisted game.

So far, her search had been futile, though her only hope was seeing a face that pricked some kind of memory, or feeling some kind of intuitive pull (something her analytical brain didn't tend to believe in). Still, she'd keep making the rounds until she thought of a better plan or until something happened.  _The definition of insanity is repeating the same actions over and over again and expecting different results._

She continued with her tale, her green eyes still moving from face to face, observing body language, trying to decipher the true meanings and motives behind glances and nods and smiles (wishing, not for the first time in her life, that she possessed the natural skills of some of her behavioral analysts).

Her phone vibrated in her coat pocket halfway through the serenity prayer, and she quietly slipped away to answer it.

"Ma'am, they've apprehended the UNSUB," Garcia didn't waste time with pleasantries. "Well, he's not an UNSUB anymore, technically—his name is Phillip Connor, and he's in custody, and the team will be leaving Detroit within the next hour or so."

Obviously, Agent Hotchner was too preoccupied with wrapping up the case, which was why Penelope was calling her with the news.

"Good," Erin gave a curt nod. She looked over her shoulder at the rest of the AA group, who were milling around, chatting, quietly talking amongst themselves. "I'm on my way back to the office now."

With one last glance around the room, she walked away. She hadn't found him yet, but one of her greatest assets was her persistence.  _You win today, but I'll find you tomorrow._

* * *

**Somewhere between Detroit and Quantico**.

"Watcha working on?" JJ asked quietly, leaning over to inspect the set of note cards that Spencer Reid was shuffling.

"I'm giving a lecture at the new exhibit opening at The National Museum of Crime and Punishment," he answered, his brow furrowing as he scratched out a few more words next to a phrase on his note card.

"Sounds interesting," the blonde commented.

This began a discussion regarding everyone's plans for the weekend, and David noticed that Alex was unusually quiet.

"What about you?" He asked softly, so low that the others couldn't hear (they were too busy teasing Morgan by now).

"Not sure yet," she admitted, clearing her throat and shifting in her seat slightly—a sign that she was being evasive. She easily changed the subject, "You seemed more relaxed today. I'm glad."

"I was," he replied. "As strange as it may sound, I find something very…calming about being in the field."

She nodded in understanding, "That's just the kind of creatures we are, Dave. We were built for this kind of work, as sick as it may sound."

There was a soft sadness in her smile as she spoke these words, the gentle acceptance of their strange lot in life—she seemed almost regretful, resigned. Almost.

He took a moment to contemplate her words. Deep down, he knew they were true—there was no special training, no manual or course that prepared them for the lifestyle that they led, nothing to help them cope with the darkness they encountered on a daily basis. At the end of the day, it was just you and the little voice inside your head and the face staring back in the mirror, and the three of you had to band together to figure out how to make it out alive. You either learned how to deal, or you didn't. You either stayed with the unit or you transferred out.

 _That's just the kind of creatures we are_. They were the ones who stayed, the brave and the few. The ones who'd found ways to heal, who had figured out little moments of escape to retain their sanity, who had somehow remained unjaded and unhurt enough to keep coming back to the fight.

 _The creatures we are_. Who were the creatures that he and Erin had evolved into? His mind flashed back to a hundred little moments from the past few weeks—her smiling up at the early morning sun in her garden, the electric beats between their words during their fights, the heat in her eyes when she wished him happy birthday, the simple joy of feeling her body roll over and nudge him in the middle of the night as they slept side-by-side, her laughter at his jokes, the gentle cadence of her voice as she taught him French, her fearful eyes just before she told him the truth, her pained expression the last time she'd seen his face.

They were flawed, imperfect creatures, both fumbling and tumbling through this new world, so heavy with knowledge and secrets and fears, so unaccustomed to this new depth of knowing, so vulnerable and uncertain. They were filled with mutual sorrow, so strangely mixed with passion and love and aggravating quirks, with so many sins against one another's hearts, unable to separate the good from the bad.

But was there enough good to outweigh the bad? Was there something worth holding on to, something worth fighting for? Was he the kind of creature that could heal and look past the wounds she'd given him?

He didn't know. And the not knowing scared him more than anything.


	26. Hour of the Wolf

_"Have you ever heard of the hour of the wolf? My father told me about it. It's the time between 3:00 and 4:00 in the morning. You can't sleep, and all you can see is the troubles and the problems and the ways that your life should've gone but didn't. All you can hear is the sound of your own heart….In times like this, my father used to take one large glass of vodka before bed. To keep the wolf away, he said. And then he would take three very small drinks of vodka, just in case she had cubs while she was waiting outside. It doesn't work."_

_~J. Michael Straczynski, Babylon 5._

* * *

**January 1989. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.**

The ride back to the William J. Green Federal Building was grim and deathly silent as reality slowly settled onto the pale and haggard faces in the van. The only agent who seemed to be even remotely alert was Markum, who was driving—the rest stared blankly ahead, all too shell-shocked and too deep in their own heads to speak or even register what was going on around them.

The van hit a particularly nasty pothole, physically shaking everyone from their stupor.

Dave Rossi looked across the van at another blond agent with deep-set blue eyes, Dave Wallander, aka The Other Dave, and for the first time, he noticed the thick red crust oozing down his neck. The Italian sat up, suddenly alert, "You get hit, Wallander?"

"I don't think so," the other man's hand automatically went to his neck, the area where Rossi's eyes were fixed. He inspected the drying blood that was now on his fingertips. "This ain't mine. Must've been from that guy Alec blew away—he was right over my shoulder."

God, it had been an absolute blood bath. They'd gone in to arrest someone who was possibly in connection with a terrorist group, and they'd been met with more resistance—and more men with guns—than they'd anticipated.

"Someone had to have tipped 'em off." Another agent, Talladeris, spoke up, his dark eyes still focused on the metal rivets between his feet. The implication behind his words settled like a stone in everyone's stomach.  _There's a rat in the Bureau._

Next to Talladeris, looking impossibly small in her large bulletproof vest and FBI windbreaker, Erin Strauss nodded in agreement. Her face, too, was covered in a fine mist of small red dots, and darker, thicker stuff was oozing from a cut near her temple.

"Strauss, y'okay?" Rossi asked, leaning in her direction.

"It's just a cut, from a fall," she answered, her fingertips lightly feathering the area. With a shaky motion to the rest of the blood stains on her body, she added, "The rest…the rest is Martin's. He was right in front of me when…"

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to. Even if they didn't see it happen, they'd all seen his body lying on the concrete floor afterwards, his face blown away.

"How did that bullet not get you, too?" Wallander asked, leaning forward so that he could see her past Talladeris' hulking form.

"I must have ducked in time," she admitted, almost shamefully. However, her colleagues saw no shame in her actions.

"Well, you got that bastard back," Wallander gave a curt nod of approval.

"Yeah you did," Talladeris smiled for the first time, giving her a playful nudge with his elbow. "I didn't know you pencil-pushers could aim like that."

She gave a small, almost embarrassed smile, shrugging lightly with feigned nonchalance, "I'm a woman of many talents, Tally."

And why, of all times and places, Rossi's mind flashed back to a steamy night in New York less than two months ago, he couldn't even fathom—but god dammit, it did, and he knew the truth behind her words.  _Many, many talents_.

He cursed his uncouth mind and its horrible timing.

"Well, one of those talents kept me alive today," Wallander was speaking again. "So thanks."

"I'm pretty sure you saved my ass a couple of times out there, too," she returned quietly, and he simply nodded in agreement.

For what seemed like the hundredth time, Rossi noted the similarities between Wallander and Strauss—their light eyes, their pale skin, their blond heads, their aquiline features. They were both from the D.C. office, looking like the golden epitomes of some Norse gods, the perfect models for two agents straight from the nation's capitol. Amongst their comrades on the task force, they were known as the Scandinavians. With Talladeris' mulatto Hispanic-by-way-of-the-Bronx looks and Rossi's unmistakable Italian heritage, the van itself was a lovely little American melting pot.

The van came to a stop and Markum turned back to them for the first time since they'd left the scene, his voice filled with something akin to regret as he softly informed them, "We're here."

With a deep breath, Erin Strauss reached forward, opening the large double-doors at the back of the van. The four agents carefully reassembled on the street corner, their breaths creating white clouds of smoke in the chilling evening air. In unison, they all turned to the looming building, knowing they had to enter, but not wanting to face the reality that awaited them.

"This is always the worst part," Wallander intoned mournfully.

"No," Rossi retorted gently. "The worst part is later, after all the paperwork's done and the questions are answered, and you're stuck sitting alone in a hotel room, wondering why the hell it had to happen today."

Next to him, Erin Strauss gave a small shiver. He was certain that it wasn't from the cold.

* * *

The next time they saw each other, they'd both been given a set of clean clothes and the blood and dirt was washed from their faces. He spotted her at the end of the hall, and for some inexplicable reason, he began walking towards her, and she moved towards him as well, a strange look of relief in her grey-green eyes.

He didn't know why he felt the need to comfort her, or to be comforted by her, because God knows, they couldn't stand each other most days. In many ways, she reminded him of a little sister—they fought endlessly and violently, they had an uncanny knack of being able to push each other's buttons (despite the fact that they really didn't know each other that well), and yet, at the end of the day, when it came down to the heart of the matter, they bonded together with surprising camaraderie.

Of course, the things he'd done to her in New York—the things she'd done to him—were not the kind of things you did with your sister.

She spoke first, her gestures slow and halting, as if she were still emerging from the strange cocoon of shock.

"They…they made me wash away—wash away the blood—Martin's blood, on my face." She looked down at her hands, as if she were still holding something, "I just…stared at it, the smudges on the paper towels. And they expected me to just throw them away—to throw him away. I didn't know—I couldn't—how do I—"

She was still trying to make sense of something that was truly senseless, to find meaning and understanding in the simple chaos of violence and death.

"They put my clothes and the paper towels, all of it, in a bag—some kind of—they said it was a biohazard. But I just…I don't know how they could just—"

She made another futile gesture with her hand, and his heart broke for her (because he, too, had been there once, looking at another man's blood on his hands and wondering how he could just wash it away, like it was nothing, because it was something that didn't belong to him, it wasn't his to destroy, to discard, to devalue).

Erin and Martin had been working together for several months now, and David understood the bond that developed between agents on a case—it was the same kind of bond developed between soldiers during warfare, the same you-and-me mentality of the trenches. Experience had taught him how to deal with such things, but she was still so young (not even thirty yet!), still so new to this world and its sudden, visceral shocks. Experience had also taught him that there were no words that could soothe the raw ache, or answer the crying questions.

So he didn't offer words. He merely pulled her into a hug.

For a split second, her body stiffened, but then her muscles relaxed as she accepted his silent comfort. She didn't cry, and part of him admired her for that—she was one tough cookie, that Erin Strauss.

After a few moments, she pulled away, giving a slightly embarrassed smile as her smoothed the front of her button-down shirt again.

"Your cut looks better," he spoke for the first time, and her hand automatically went to her temple, which was now cleaned and bandaged.

"Tis but a scratch," she adopted a British accent.

He took a moment to look at her in surprise—did the woman just seriously quote the Black Knight from  _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_?

"Please tell me you got that reference," she said, in her usual tone.

"I did," he admitted.

"Oh, good. I do so hate to waste on a good joke on the uncultured."

Now he let out a laugh, because he knew that was a barb aimed at him—for weeks now, he'd made snide remarks about her country club upbringing, her pristine bloodline and her family money.

There was a beat of silence as her smile faded and she surveyed his face. Quietly, she asked, "How are you holding up?"

He gave a heavy sigh before he answered. "I'm used to it by now."

"That's not what I asked," she pointed out. He didn't reply and she realized that he was silently informing her that the conversation was over.

A door opened down the hall, and another agent motioned for her to return. With one last soft touch at David's elbow, she turned to leave, "Thank you. For, you know."

He did know, and he simply nodded in acknowledgement, his dark eyes following her down the hallway. Suddenly, he had the urge to run after her, to wrap her in his arms again, to whisper soft, comforting things in her ear until the haunted look in her eyes disappeared. He wasn't sure where those strange emotions came from, and that bothered him, because he prided himself on being an expert in human behavior and motivation. He never understood how she could get under his skin so effortlessly, slipping in so quietly that he never realized it until she was already too deep in.  _She shouldn't be able to do that._

She shouldn't be able to, but God knows that Erin Strauss seemed to defy every law of reason, because she did—she got under his skin and burrowed in deep, so deep that there was no way he could ever erase the mark she'd left.

He shouldn't feel that way about her. She had a husband and he had a wife, and what had happened in New York was a fluke, an accident, a bad decision, a mistake, a fall from grace, a moment of madness, temporary insanity at its finest. It was a sin.

And yet, he hadn't confessed and repented of it. He knew that he should be wracked with guilt, that he should have been on his knees before God the next day, silently seeking forgiveness.

But he hadn't.

David wasn't exactly sure what that meant (wasn't sure he wanted to know what it meant), but he knew one thing—it scared the hell out of him.

That woman was dangerous, dangerous in a way that no other woman had ever been for him. She had a power over him that did not bend to the will of logic. Despite how he felt about her (how he thought he felt about her, how he told himself that he felt about her), she could send his defenses toppling like the walls of Jericho with a single glance, and then make him want to strangle her in the next second—it was an unhealthy, animalistic whirlpool, a discovery that should have never been made, a line that should have never been crossed, a cautionary tale that could never end well.

She was a fast and sweet ticket to hell. And truth be told, he was eager to go along for the ride.

* * *

If there were a direct portal to paradise, David Rossi was fairly certain that it was located between the soft and sturdy thighs of one Erin Strauss, which were currently wrapped around him, pulling him deeper into the pounding, pulsing vortex of hot silk and sweaty skin, muffled cries and tangled sheets, flashing eyes and biting nails.

After the debriefing, they had returned back to the hotel in dour spirits, everyone retiring to their separate rooms to drink alone and stare at the ceiling until morning. Around 3:00am, he had heard a knock on his door, and he'd set down his beer to peer through the peephole. As if she could sense his gaze, Erin Strauss was staring straight back into his eyes.

It had taken less than two seconds for him to make his decision—he had opened the door, opened his arms for the blonde to launch herself into, opened another sticky can of worms that shouldn't have ever been opened again.

She was obviously drunk, and he was, too, and he'd known that they'd probably regret it in the morning, but dawn seemed a lifetime away, and in that moment—the only moment that truly mattered—she was looking at him with silent, pleading eyes burning with a strange fire and she was touching him in that aggressively soft way that turned his own skin to molten liquid, tumbling and receding like wave of electricity, and dear God in heaven, could any man ever resist this woman?

He hadn't asked questions, and she hadn't offered explanations, and soon they found themselves in their current positions. He could taste the bitter bite of vodka on her tongue, but underneath it lay the strangely sweet flavor that was uniquely Erin, and he continued searching for it with his own tongue, unable to be satisfied with just one more taste. His seeking hunger was equally matched by Erin's own; her back was arched as she tried to pull him closer, to feel more of his hot skin against her body, her hands were moving, roving, feeling and grasping, desperate for more.

A low keening noise was building in her throat and he quickly recaptured her mouth with his own, muffling the sound (this hotel had paper-thin walls, and Talladeris' room was right next to his).

She understood his action, because when she broke away from his kiss, she whispered in a ragged breath, "I'm sorry; I'm trying to keep quiet but—oh!"

He couldn't help but feel a measure of satisfaction at her sudden reaction.

"Do you really want to have to explain all the noise to Tally tomorrow morning?" He asked, not even trying to fight the grin slipping over his face.

"Golden has me on the first flight back to D.C.—I won't be around to explain anything," she returned with a sly grin of her own. Her eyes lit up with devilish glee as she added, "But if you'd like, I could really give him something to talk about—"

He stopped her words with his tongue, and he felt her laughing into his mouth. It was an empty threat and they both knew it, because she had just as much to lose, but she was so delightful when she was teasing him like this, and right now, they both needed the distraction.

Erin closed her eyes as she felt the familiar rippling through her body, the first small waves that would build into something bigger, as her mind breathed,  _Thank you, thank you, thank you..._

Why in hell Erin Strauss was silently thanking David Rossi was beyond even her own comprehension, but here she was, thinking nothing but the kindest thoughts towards this man whom most days she could strangle with her bare hands. But today wasn't like most days, and right now, by some sick twist of that bastard Fate and its equally bitchy sister Karma, the dark-haired man on top of her ( _inside_  of her) was the one person she felt that she could turn to, the only one who wouldn't ask questions or judge her or push her for anything more than exactly what she wanted and needed.

In a strange moment of hindsight, Erin realized that this particular path was decided the moment she'd seen David in the hallway, during the debriefing. He'd taken one look at her and had moved towards her automatically, without hesitation, without giving a damn about what anyone else would think, and she'd done the same. Because despite their very different backgrounds and lifestyles, underneath the opposite skins of their personalities, they were the same creature. They sensed it, they knew it with a knowing that comes deep from the belly, the solid assurance of seeing yourself in another, the recognition that needs no formal acknowledgement, no words or greetings at all. Erin wasn't a vain woman, but she wasn't stupid, either—she could have picked any guy in their rag-tag team of interdepartmental agents. She could have had someone who was nicer to her, someone who didn't drive her absolutely bat-shit crazy sometimes, someone who was unlike David in all the best of ways, but she didn't. She chose David because despite all of those marks against him, he was the only one who truly saw her, who truly understood, because he was just like her (not in every way, not all the time, but in the ways and times when it mattered).

The thought was as scary as hell and extremely erotic, all at the same time. Erin couldn't think of a better description for David Rossi.

* * *

His back was turned to her, but he could feel her waking, could feel her shifting as she stretched her muscles, giving a small groan and mumbling something indecipherable. She rolled over, her left arm hap-hazardously flopping over his waist, pulling herself closer to him. She nuzzled the crook of his neck, kissing the red tracks left by her fingernails the night before. She didn't apologize for the marks, and he didn't expect her to.

David would have loved to roll over, to trace the outlines of that soft, warm flesh, to find one last measure of satisfaction in a woman who often was such a source of irritation, but it was daylight now, and it didn't feel right. They were sober now, there were no more excuses—they had survived the long dark night, they'd found a way to push back the tidal waves of depression and helplessness, they'd used each other as a means of distraction, and now that moment of weakness had passed, and their justifications disappeared like mist in sunshine.

He hated the fact that he was literally giving her the cold shoulder, but it was a necessary part of the process. Things were too messy, too complicated to make this into anything more than what it truly was—two people who came together in an attempt to shut out the badness of their world for a little while, two ships seeking refuge in the same harbor from the same storm.

She sensed his distance, because she pulled away suddenly, glancing at the clock and breathing a sigh of relief that she hadn't missed her flight.

"I'm going to take a shower," she announced, slipping easily out of the bed. He took a moment to study her face before she disappeared into the bathroom—she had her Mona Lisa mask back in place (she'd always done that, ever since he'd known her, and he wondered where and why she'd learned to hide her thoughts like that) and the lost woman from last night was gone.

She was made of stern stuff; she'd come out of this just fine. But deep down, he knew that there would be a few nights of sadness and futile questions flung to heaven before she was OK again. He knew it, just like he knew the sun would rise in the east tomorrow morning, and just like he knew that the world would continue on, without even stopping to notice the little tragedy that had unfolded in a warehouse in Philly or the subsequent little tryst that had unfolded in a tiny little hotel room.

* * *

Erin came to a rather startling discovery in the shower—she was officially engaged in an affair with David Rossi. Once was a mistake, but twice was a decision, and this marked the second time that she'd sought him out (both times knowing exactly what she was seeking, both times understanding the darker undertones of her wants and choosing to follow them anyways).

She wasn't that type of person. Well, technically, she  _was_ , but she didn't want to be. Last night, she'd returned to her hotel room, still numb and slightly in denial about the fact that this really was a scene from her life, and she'd tried to call Paul. He wasn't home, and that had bothered her, because it was already so late. She wasn't worried about his safety (he'd started taking late night drives to clear his head, over the past few months) so much as she was concerned about what his absence meant, although deep down, she had known that Paul would never be unfaithful (though she'd been, oh so unfaithful and unrepentant). In fact, the main reason for his late night drives was because they had been fighting a lot more recently—fighting over what she'd come to label  _the family issue_.

Paul wanted children. Erin did not. Though in the end, she'd always known that she would bear him children (she wouldn't deny him that, because she knew that he'd make a great father), but she had hoped to put off motherhood for just a little bit longer. When they'd married, she'd said  _When I'm thirty_ , and now that her thirtieth birthday was less than a month away, she had suddenly realized that she was no more ready for progeny now than she had been all those years ago. It was different for Paul, who was thirty-five and well-established in his career, whose day job didn't involve the same stress and danger as hers. Holy hell, she'd just watched a man's face get blown to Kingdom Come—how could she possibly be mother material?

After staring blankly at the phone for a few minutes, she'd knocked back another shot of vodka (her personal go-to for whitewashing bad memories) and suddenly, she had realized that even if Paul had been home, he wouldn't have been much comfort—he wouldn't be able to comprehend her words, wouldn't be able to understand all the tumbling feelings of guilt and sorrow and shock that rolled around her alcohol-addled brain like a black hole, distorting the edges of reality and sucking away any brightness that remained.

Of course, at that moment, the proverbial light had clicked on— _David Rossi_  would understand. He would understand better than most, because he'd gone through the same thing. The way he'd held her in the hallway whenever she told him about Martin's blood—he was silently telling her that he knew exactly how she felt, because he'd been there before.

And just like that, she'd taken two more shots of vodka (for courage, though a small flicker of knowing had told her that he'd never refuse her) and quietly marched her way to David's room, seven doors down from her own.

And now, here she was, in the impossibly tiny hotel shower, washing away last night's remains. There was still a delicious warmth simmering through her nerve-endings, and part of her really wanted to go back out there and re-entrust her body to Mr. Rossi's capable hands, but she knew she could never do such a thing.

In fact, she could never do such a thing ever again. Because this wasn't who she was. Right now, she was embarrassing herself, shamelessly letting her body's desire override her mind's logic. David Rossi was a lecher, a liar who'd say any honeyed words it took to get into a woman's pants (she conveniently forgot that he hadn't said anything last night, when  _she_  had shown up on  _his_  door step), a disrespectful person and a reckless agent to boot. She as acting like some good-girl Sandra Dee, bowled over by the dark allure of a bad boy—the problem was that they were far from high schoolers, and their actions could have serious real-world repercussions.

She turned off the shower and grabbed a towel, thanking the gods above that this was the last time she'd have to endure the rough pull of that fabric on her skin. The case had been on-and-off for over a year now, taking them on a winding path through D.C., New York, and Philly as they'd tracked their target through various shady deals. In New York, they'd stayed for a full week, and the hotel had been nice. Then the trail went cold and everyone had been shipped back to their respective field offices, giving them the luxury of sleeping in their own beds for a few weeks. But around Christmas, their guy was back in action, and they'd been called to Philadelphia—Wallander and Strauss hailing from the D.C. Office, Talladeris from New York, Rossi from Quantico—to join Martin and the rest of the task force, who were all currently stationed in Philadelphia. Martin had affectionately called it "getting the band back together". The thought of him brought a heavy sadness to Erin's chest.

They'd been in this cramped hotel for three weeks now, and though the case had ended on a mournful note, those who survived were relieved at the chance to finally go home.

Home. With Paul. That was where she belonged.

She padded back into the room, quietly slipping into her clothes. David watched her, his cautious silence informing her that he was already aware of her change in mood. Once she was fully dressed, she sat at the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath before breaking the stillness of the room.

"I think...I think we shouldn't do this anymore." She looked down at her hands, which were clasped on her knees to keep from shaking. She wasn't sure why she was so scared, because even though David had a horrible temper, she knew that he'd never do anything to hurt her. But maybe this fear was for her physical safety. Maybe it wasn't for her at all. Maybe it was something deeper.

David didn't know why he felt his chest tighten at her words, but he did. Still, he affected an air of total nonchalance as he spoke, "It's probably for the best."

She looked up at him, and he could tell that she was slightly surprised at his reaction. Her words were hesitant, almost pleading, "So...no hard feelings?"

"Absolutely not," he swore. He gave a slight shrug of his shoulder, "A fling's a fling, kid. No need for hard feelings."

He'd almost called her  _kitten_ , but he'd easily corrected to  _kid_. He knew how much she despised the former moniker, and he didn't want her to think that he was taunting her (although deep down, she would always be  _kitten_  to him). Even though he often enjoyed teasing the oh-so-easily provoked blonde, now wasn't the time nor the place for such things. She was being vulnerable and making a true request, and he would give her the courtesy of kindness in return.

Erin flinched at the word— _kid, that's what he sees me as, some dumb kid, some easy fuck, something inconsequential, someone not to be taken seriously, someone and something he can easily dismiss with a shrug of his shoulder and a pat on the head_.

He saw something flash behind those green eyes, but he couldn't decipher its meaning. He'd come to learn that when it came to Erin Strauss, it was best not to try unriddling her nuances—she was a sphinx, she could drive a man to insanity if he tried to seek out all her mysteries.

"Right," she gave a tight smile as she rose to her feet. "Well, Agent Rossi, as always, it's been such an honor working with you."

The sarcasm in her voice did not go unnoticed.

"And if we ever meet again—"

"This never happened," he finished for her. She gave a curt nod of approval. Then she turned on her heel and left, without a backward glance.

_If we ever meet again_. As if they wouldn't. Despite its sprawling web of connected field offices, the Bureau could be quite small at times—David knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they'd meet again, many more times.

Now that she was gone (again), he could let his mind wander back to the conversation—why had he reacted so strangely to her decision?

It was just a fling. It was just sex—well, scratch that, it was great sex (part of him hated that it had to be so mind-blowing with  _her_ , of all people)—but still, the hopeless romantic within David Rossi truly believed that there was more to love and relationships and romance than just fucking, which happened to be what he and Erin had been doing (no strings attached, nothing but need and want and muddled minds and pounding bodies, heat without warmth). There had always been some kind of chemical thing between them, something in their skin that just connected with a little  _zap!_ and a soft  _oh!_ , but that's all it was—physical. Not emotional.

Which didn't explain why he'd reacted that way. In fact, it was in direct opposition to his reaction. The answer lay somewhere deeper, somewhere much more intricate and complex. The answer lay in the same reason that he'd taken her in his arms to comfort her last night, in the same reason he'd felt a wave of fear for her safety as they'd suited up yesterday afternoon, the same reason he'd been so relieved to see her alive (albeit frightened) face after it was all over. It lay in the same strange tenderness he'd felt towards her in New York, when her vulnerability had broken through his defenses and he'd caved in, falling into her bed and starting a journey that ended here today.

Oh, hell.

* * *

**May 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

David rubbed his bleary eyes and tried to force himself to concentrate on the computer screen in front of him. After the flight in from Detroit, he'd spend the rest of the day at his desk, looking over consult cases and catching up on reports—now his lower back was not-so-kindly informing him that he needed to take a break and his eyes were protesting the strain as well.

He decided to get yet another cup of coffee, standing up and stretching his tired muscles. He opened his office door, not at all surprised to see that the bullpen was deserted and that Hotch's light was still on.

Hotch's door was also open, and from it slipped the familiar cadence of a low, feminine voice.

That voice. That voice could command armies, could raise castles with its lilts, could mimic Italian phrases with an adorably French quirk, could slice a man's skin, could easily soothe the wound again. It could build worlds, it could destroy them, it could be the beginning and the end, all and nothing.

David was slightly surprised to realize that he didn't feel any pain at the sound of her voice (for the past week, every nuance of Erin Strauss had been like a needle prick to his heart, but now, there was nothing). He simply stood there for a few moments, just listening to her voice—he wasn't eavesdropping, because he couldn't make out the syllables, and really all he wanted was to hear the familiar roll and tumble of her tone, finding some sweet nostalgia in it.

He missed her. He felt that with every fiber of his being. He missed all that they used to be, although he sadly realized that it could never be again. He'd finally had a taste of what life with Erin could be, and he still couldn't imagine not having her in his life. That was the part that scared him the most—after all these years, after all those silent hopes and those unspoken dreams that had finally been given some small measure of reality, how could he just walk away? How could he just abandon the path that he'd been traveling for almost half of his life now?

He saw the pool of light from Aaron's window shift, could hear the soft sounds of furniture moving, signaling that Erin was on her feet again and preparing to leave. David contemplated simply stepping back into his office, but he knew that she knew he was still here, and that was an act of cowardice. So, he simply made his feet move again, towards the stairs and the caffeine he so desperately needed.

She exited Hotch's office, and David's movement caught her attention. For a moment they simply stood on opposite ends of the landing, watching each other with quiet and careful eyes. Then, he offered a small, simple smile.

An equally small smile bloomed across her lips, and he noticed the slightest hitch of her shoulders, as if his gesture had lifted some invisible weight from them.

He was being civil and acknowledging her presence, which was an improvement, but Erin knew better than to push her luck. She turned and went down the stairs, not looking back, although she could hear the familiar tread of his footsteps as he moved behind her, could feel the shift in energy as he veered off towards the break room and she continued her path to the glass doors. She felt a small frisson of hope, though she told herself not to read too much into the gesture.

David watched her go, watched the familiar sway of her hips, the familiar set of that blonde head as she disappeared through the doors and down the hall.

And just like that, he knew that he would forgive her.

Eventually.


	27. Deflection

_"Engage people with what they expect; it is what they are able to discern and confirms their projections. It settles them into predictable patterns of response, occupying their minds while you wait for the extraordinary moment — that which they cannot anticipate."_

_~Sun Tzu, The Art of War._

* * *

**May 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

Spencer Reid left the sunshine of the bright May morning, entering the cool and somber interior of the FBI building, his mind heavy and distracted with so many things.

Blake might be leaving them. In Detroit, she'd confessed that her husband had received a job offer from Harvard—with a teaching position for her included. Though Spencer hated the thought of losing another trusted friend (after all, she'd been there through so much, through so many dark moments, with her quiet advice and gentle reassurances, reminding him of the mother that he'd never had), he wanted what was best for her—the same way he'd understood that Emily needed to leave, because even though he would miss her, he knew that he couldn't ask her to stay, couldn't ask her to keep those demons in her eyes, couldn't ask her to be unhappy just to satisfy his own selfish desire to keep her close.

He had a lecture to give in four days, and he still wasn't exactly sure what he was going to talk about. That was more of a nuisance than an actual problem, because honestly, his notes were just guidelines and he generally extemporized based on whatever sparked in his mind at the time. Still, he liked feeling prepared, because public speaking made him nervous (though not when he was speaking to cops or other agents, or giving a profile, but only when he was speaking to the general public, whenever he was loaned out by the Bureau like some freakshow exhibit).

Only eight days remained in the Replicator's countdown. That, of course, was the most pressing thought in his mind. His subconscious was continuously mulling over the implications, thinking and rethinking every angle.  _Option #1, Option #2, Option #3. Flip a coin, I dare ya. Three shells, move 'em around, pick which one has the pea underneath._

That analogy triggered something in his brain.  _One of these is not like the other ones. Can you spot the difference?_

He could be wrong. He didn't have the luxury of being wrong, especially when time was of the essence. He couldn't afford to be distracted by a false trail.

Distraction. That wasn't the first time that particular word had come to mind.

What's the first trick a magician should learn? There's nothing more powerful than the gift of distraction. That's why so many illusionists and magicians had such lovely assistants—a pretty woman was an easy way to garner most of the crowd's attention and distract their gaze from the trick itself.

But the Replicator wasn't a magician. He was a sadist, and he took supreme delight in being able to taunt his victims with the future, to let them squirm as they realized their utter helplessness, to show them how powerless they were against his greater will. He didn't make threats that he didn't intend to enforce.

The problem was that no one was quite sure  _what_  the threat was. Sure, it involved three sons ( _three options, three choices, three little Indians_ ), but that was all they knew. Everything else was just a guess.

Spencer didn't like guesses, especially not when it involved the people he cared about. Guesses could be wrong. Guesses could become mistakes. Mistakes could be fatal.

 _Henry_. Though he didn't wish for anything to happen to any of the boys, he felt a panic clawing its way up his throat at the white-hot realization that he couldn't let anything happen to Henry. Henry, the boy with the golden hair and the smile that always made Spencer smile in turn, the one who followed him with a childish reverence that was both endearing and frightening. If Henry were gone—he couldn't even finish that thought.

"Good morning, Boy Wonder," Penelope's cheerful attitude (though a little forced today) did not have its usual comforting effect on the young doctor. In fact, it was the opposite.

"Morning," he replied, a little surprised by his own irritation at his friend's appearance.

"It looks like you'll be jetting off to Missouri for a few days," she continued, holding up the stack of folders in her hand in explanation. "Although, I guess we can wait to talk about that, because frankly—"

"How can we catch this guy if no one will let us do our damn work?" Spencer growled suddenly, his ferocity causing Penelope to stop and stare after him. He turned back around, angry at himself for lashing out at his friend, but still too angry to apologize. "I have eight days to figure this out— _eight_  days! How can I do that if I'm constantly being thrown on to new cases? I can't do the work that I need to do from the field, in fact, I can't do any work from the field because I'm too busy  _working_  in the field, and I know that's my job, but how am I supposed to think about those things when the clock in my head is ticking off another minute wasted?"

He was talking quickly now, his hands fluttering about in frustration and excitation as his voice rose with each word. There were people staring at him, but he didn't care.

"The Replicator should be our number one priority and yet, it's not even a priority at all, and I don't understand what colossal leave of his sense the director must have taken to order—"

"Dr. Reid." The low, deadly rumble of another woman's voice stopped him mid-rant.

Penelope and Spencer turned to see Erin Strauss, her fingers tightly gripping a travel mug of coffee as if she were trying to strangle it, her leather clutch briefcase clamped to her side as her icy gaze remained locked on the young man.

"Perhaps we should continue this conversation in my office."

It wasn't a question, or even a suggestion. It was a command, given in a cold and emotionless tone that would brook no refusals.

To Spencer's credit, he didn't flinch at the pronouncement. "Yes, ma'am."

She breezed past him, but his long strides soon caught up to her shorter ones.

"You should be more careful about where you decide to criticize the director," she said coolly, not even looking at him as they made their way to the elevators.

"I wasn't—"

"You hadn't  _yet_ , because I stopped you."

He couldn't argue with that.

As they waited for the elevator to arrive, she turned her concerned eyes back to him, "Do you really think that we don't consider the Replicator a priority?"

Per usual, Spencer chose the path of brutal honesty, "I think  _you_  do, because you have an emotionally vested interest in the outcome of this particular scenario—but no, ma'am, I don't think that the director considers this case a priority, based on his past responses."

Strauss gave a heavy sigh at his words. "I'm afraid I can't refute that, Dr. Reid."

Switching gears, she looked up at him again, almost not daring to hope as she asked, "Have you—have there been any more developments?"

"No, ma'am, there hasn't." Again, anger was creeping into the young man's tone (and frustration and worry, Erin heard that too, dancing at the edges).

The elevator was filled with other people, so they fell silent until they had reached the safety of Erin's office.

"So there are no new theories, at all?" She resumed her line of questioning, closing the door behind her as she moved easily towards the small conference table on the right side of her office, setting her case in a chair and her coffee on the table, turning back to him with a sense of guarded expectancy.

There was something in her voice that nagged at Spencer—it almost sounded as if she were... _fishing_  for something.

"No," he answered slowly, suddenly wondering how much of his current thought process that he should share with her. She may be an ally to the BAU now, but this was a special circumstance ( _the enemy of my enemy is my friend_ ), and past experience had proven that she wasn't the most trustworthy person.

She gave a small sigh of frustration and distress, and Spencer saw something in her face that he felt in his own soul—the need to protect the boys at all costs, the fear of failing, the sheer helplessness of it all. His previous reservations dissipated, and he added, "I can't help feeling like perhaps he's trying to use the boys as a distraction of some sort."

She furrowed her brows in slight confusion, but she listened quietly as he continued, "Before, all his taunts were specifically directed at team members, but they applied to the entire team, and were always tied to a case we were working. This is almost  _too_  specific."

"Too specific?" Erin repeated, folding her arms over her chest. Suddenly, she understood, "Because this only targets three members of the BAU specifically, and because the boys are not involved in our work."

"Exactly."

"There wasn't a mention of zugzwang in this taunt, either," she said softly, her mind reeling through its internal rows of data ( _analysis of a crime, finding the points at which multiple incidents intersect, highlighting the points at which they do not_ ).

The chess term sent off a firework on the young doctor's brain.

The Replicator wasn't a magician. He didn't use distraction. He was a chess player. He used deflection.

"That's it," he breathed, and Erin was immediately alerted to his change of tone, standing a little straighter and cocking her head to the side as she waited for him to announce his latest discovery.

"In chess, deflection is the act of luring an opposing piece away from its defensive position—removing a piece that fulfills an important defensive role renders it useless, because it can't defend anything else without giving up the defense role it's assigned."

"What exactly are you saying, Dr. Reid?" Erin Strauss was not a chess player.

"By using the boys as bait, he's luring us away from our original positions," Spencer's voice began to rise as he paced across her office, his brain clicking things into place even more quickly than his mouth could express the thought. "If he distracts us—if he deflects our attention—he can strike in the area that's left vulnerable, the area we should be paying attention to."

"Which is?"

Ah, those two words. If only they were as simple as they sounded.

"I don't know yet," he answered truthfully.

She gave a small nod, silently accepting the regret and apology behind his words.

"By placing the boys in danger, he's taken away our concern for our own safety," Erin began slowly, trying to weave together the pieces of information that they did have. She gave a slight shake of her head, "But that has only increased the amount of protective detail around the three of us who have children. Seems a little counter-productive, don't you think?"

"Something's still missing," Spencer agreed. "But he would have thought of that—he seems to have a contingency in place for every outcome; it seems unlikely that he wouldn't have already been prepared for such a move. He never does anything without a reason."

"No, he doesn't," the section chief gave a heavy sigh. With a sudden glance at her watch, she resumed her former air of all-business, "I've made you late for your briefing, Dr. Reid."

Spencer moved towards the door, and Erin offered one last olive branch as she quietly added, "You know...you know that I wouldn't send you out into the field, if I could—I'm just following orders."

"I know," he said simply, neither condemning nor condoning her actions. With one last small smile, he disappeared.

And though he was gone, the question still remained: what were they missing? What was the thing that they were supposed to be busy guarding?

* * *

Alex Blake smiled warmly at Spencer as he entered the conference room. He was a few minutes late, but Garcia had already informed everyone that he'd been called into Strauss' office, so there was no reprimand from Hotch for his tardiness.

Once Penelope had given them the details of the new case, Reid put forth his latest theory. There were a few looks of uncertainty (Morgan, JJ, Garcia), and few nods of agreement (Blake, Rossi), and one look of pragmatic ambivalence (Hotch, always Hotch). Then the team dispersed, going back to grab their bags and head out again.

As they were walking towards the elevators, Blake sidled up to the young doctor, a smile playing on the corner of her lips as she quietly informed him, "So...I'm staying."

He turned back around, his face filled with happy surprise. "Really?"

"Really," her own grin deepened at his reaction.

"And James?" His expression became cautious.

"He understands."

Spencer gave a curt nod, "Good. That's good."

"It is," she agreed with a smile.

Derek Morgan appeared beside her, his handsome features wearing a different kind of smile as he spoke, "I hear your hubby's back in town."

"He is," Blake suddenly understood the sly light in Morgan's eyes, and she wanted to laugh—sometimes he was worse than a teenaged boy.

"Could that be the reason we are so happy and smiling today?" He asked with an air of mock seriousness, as if he were truly contemplating the question.

"It certainly could," she gave a slight shrug of feigned nonchalance. But of course she couldn't let it go at that, "Or maybe it's just because I'm so overjoyed at the chance to spend another day at your side, Agent Morgan."

He laughed at her snark, gently bumping her shoulder with his own, "Trust me, lady, the feeling's mutual."

On her other side, Spencer Reid gave a small nod of agreement as they walked together down the hall. Alex Blake felt a small wave of warmth pass through her chest at the knowledge that she'd truly made the right decision. Her mind went back to the words she'd spoken to Dave on the plane ride from Detroit— _that's just the kind of creatures we are_. That was the kind of creature she was, and she was finally in a place where she was able to use her abilities for the greatest good, in a place where she was surrounded by like creatures, in a place that felt like home.

The last realization startled her, but in a good way. She'd bumped around several times during her career, and it had never bothered her—people and places, they come and go, it's just part of the territory. But then again, none of those other places ever felt quite like this one, and none of those people ever understood her quite like these did.

 _My home away from home, in lovely Quantico._  She liked the sound of that.

* * *

**Vienna, Virginia**

It was strange, how much things could change, and yet how much they could stay the same. Erin saw this truth in living color as she sat at the dinner table, surrounded by her ex-husband and her children, who were all talking and joking as if the past three years were gone entirely.

This was when she missed Paul—when he was right in front of her, reminding her of his quiet care and tenderness over the years, when she could see the resemblance between him and Anna, when Jordan and Christopher's mannerisms mimicked his own, when he said something that made her laugh and reminded her of the good times. She didn't want him back (at least not in a romantic way, because her brief time with David had taught her that there was so much more that could be shared, and she could never go back), but gods, she did love the feeling of safety and belonging that had always come from being with Paul. They had always just clicked, in simple ways, though those little connections hadn't been enough to withstand every test of time, and though she knew it was for the best, she still missed how easily they'd always fit into each other's lives. With Paul, she'd sacrificed passion for comfort, but she didn't regret it.

She'd tasted true passion, and now the absence of it ate away at her insides like a tumor. The way she missed David was different from the way she missed Paul—with Paul, she missed the good, and with David, she missed it all.

It was strange, missing a person who still spent so much time around her. They'd been in Missouri for two days now, and she'd been relieved at his absence—knowing he was in the same building was utter hell, because she actually ached (yes,  _ached_ , the same way she used to ache for just one more drink) for some excuse to see him, for some reason to speak to him, to make him have some kind of contact with her, and she had fought against those selfish desires, because she knew that he couldn't stand the sight of her anymore, and she didn't want to hurt him any further. With a wry and saddened smile, she acknowledged that as usual, they'd fallen on opposite ends of the spectrum—she was hurt by his absence; he was hurt by her presence.

Her phone buzzed, its vibration making it dance across the polished table top, and she stood, giving a regretful smile to her family, "I've got to take this."

She disappeared through the French doors, out into the backyard before answering.

"Do we think it's Mother's Italian Lover?" Anna asked with a grin, which quickly disappeared once Jordan gave her a swift kick in the shins under the table and she sheepishly realized that their father was sitting next to her.

"Probably work-related," Paul answered easily, overlooking his daughter's comment—not that it truly bothered him, because after all, he'd been dating again for several months (though Erin's love life suddenly sounded so much more exotic than his—an Italian lover seemed much more enviable than the sweet-but-placid business types he dated).

Christopher quickly diverted the subject and a few minutes later, Erin reappeared.

"Everything alright?" Jordan asked, and her mother nodded in response.

"Yes. That was just one of my agents, giving me an update from the field." They knew better than to ask any more questions, because she couldn't comment on ongoing investigations, and even if she could, she wouldn't talk about such things at the dinner table. That was one thing that Paul had always prided his ex-wife on—she never brought her work home, never let the darker side of the Bureau seep into their children's existence. The only work-related memorabilia she'd ever kept were the books in the library, and she'd kept them away from the children until they were old enough to understand them. Of course, this rule of not bringing work home had meant that she'd spent many late nights at the office, which had caused a strain on their marriage on more than one occasion, but he'd always understood her reasoning.

She'd always tried to do her best for their little family, even though sometimes it meant that sacrifices were made. In the end, it had all turned out alright, and Paul could accept that.

"You're not working tomorrow, right?" Christopher asked, his eyebrow arching in a slightly reprimanding way.

"Not unless the director calls me in for some emergency," his mother answered diplomatically.

"Awesome," Jordan grinned. "That means we can spend the whole day poolside."

"That sounds like a wonderful idea," Erin replied with a dreamy smile. After the stress of the past week, spending a day surrounded by her children and basking under the sun was exactly what she needed.

More plans were made as the dishes were cleared away and the family adjourned to play a few rounds of billiards and to give one hilariously bad performance on Rock Band. All too soon, the hours slipped away as the five Strausses retreated into the familiar cocoon that they'd always been able to create amongst themselves.

Paul grimaced when he noticed the time, "Oh, you have kept this old man out way past his bedtime."

Erin followed him back into the living room, where he gathered his things, glancing behind her to make sure that the kids were still safely ensconced in the den.

"You could just stay here, you know," she spoke softly, hoping to all the gods above that he didn't take her offer the wrong way.

He turned back to her, his expression a mixture of mild surprise and confusion.

"Jordan could bunk with Anna, and you could have the guest room," she clarified. She glanced at the clock again, "It's so late, and if you're just going to come back tomorrow, why not save yourself the trip through traffic in the district?"

Paul took a moment to contemplate her words—she was right, of course (Erin was nothing if not a logical being), and he really didn't look forward to the drive back to his place, which was on the opposite side of D.C. It was a simple offer, and there wasn't any need to make things weird. So he simply nodded.

"Sounds good."


	28. Expectation

_"Expectations were like fine pottery. The harder you held them, the more likely they were to crack."_

_~Brandon Sanderson._

* * *

**May 1994. Washington, D.C.**

"I think maybe that's his head. I can't really tell anymore."

Paul looked over at his wife, who was focused on her pregnant belly. She gently rubbed the oddly protruding bump on her left side as she informed him, "I think he's trying to turn. Gods, I hope he is."

He smiled at the quip—although Erin had gone through this pregnancy like a champ, she certainly wasn't enjoying the summer heat, and he knew that she was anxious to deliver their son before the temperature became too unbearable. She was still going to work every day, though her hours had been cut back to accommodate the impending arrival of their child, and this was the first time they'd actually been out and about during the middle of the day. Of course, it didn't help that they were at a Memorial Day barbeque at their friends Clair and Stellan's house, and the fire from the grills only added to the sultry heat permeating the air.

She sat up suddenly, her hand moving to her other side. "Yep, I feel his feet kicking over here. Definitely his head, then."

With a loving smile, he reached over and caressed her swollen abdomen—the physical manifestation of their love protected inside of her. Her hand gently covered his, their fingers entwining affectionately.

"Oh, geez, get a room," their friend Sorcha rolled her eyes in mock exasperation from her perch on the lawn chair next to Erin's.

Erin laughed at the quip, reaching over to lightly spat her friend's arm before pulling herself to her feet.

"I'm gonna go inside for a bit," she informed her husband, lightly tracing the outline of his face as he remained seated in his own chair. "I need to cool down."

He simply nodded, smiling at her retreating form (it was funny, how much tinier she seemed when she was pregnant, how much more fragile and dainty she seemed). She looked so perfect here, among the sprawling lawns and pristine lines of the house, in her breezy summer dress with her blonde curls piled atop her head, further accenting the delicate set of her shoulders and the fine lines of her collar bone.

Even with a belly full of unborn babe, she still was the most attractive woman in the room. Her first pregnancy had been hell, she'd been sickly and pale and withdrawn, but with this second child, Erin had taken to motherhood like a duck to water, and Paul saw some measure of hope in this. Maybe this would be the one that made her truly want to give up her work with the FBI—with the money he made, there wasn't any need for Erin to work at all—and they could settle into the life he'd always dreamed of.

Of course, Erin would roll her eyes at what she called his archaic Americana outlook on life (she'd never called him sexist, but sometimes she hinted at it, whenever he suggested that she consider simply becoming a stay-at-home mother), but that didn't stop Paul from hoping.

After all, look at how their life with children had changed. Erin had thought she didn't want children; Paul had known that he did. They had compromised, and Erin had told him that they could start trying to get pregnant after her thirtieth birthday. Then some horrible event had happened while she had been on a case in Philadelphia, and her priorities had shifted, and suddenly she'd decided that children were a good idea. A little over a year later, Jordan was born, and their entire world changed. Erin had turned out to be a good mother (just as Paul always knew she would be), and they had been happier than ever. Their unborn son had been a bit of a shock, because they had planned on waiting a little longer before trying for a second child, but it was still a welcome surprise.

Paul knew it was foolish to hope such things—Erin was one of the most driven and determined women that he'd ever met, and in many ways, he saw that as a good thing. But he didn't understand why she couldn't simply step away from the Bureau for a few years to focus on raising their children.

_It doesn't work that way_ , she'd told him, and secretly, he had thought that she simply didn't  _want_  it to work that way. But he wasn't too concerned about her adamant desire to be able to return to work as soon as possible—Erin hated change of any kind, so she always fought it, but once it was there, she usually accepted it and found that she preferred the new way of things. It could be that way with this child. Maybe she could finally understand why Paul wanted this for their family, and maybe she could finally accept this change as the good thing it truly was.

She had stopped on her way to the house to chat with another guest. She was smiling, nodding, glowing as she gently rubbed her side (their son was kicking again, he could tell, because she always tried to soothe him by massaging her stomach like that whenever he became too rambunctious). She laughed, a laugh that was always a little too loud to be polite or appropriate at most social functions but still endearing, and it was then that Paul truly felt the difference in their ages. He was forty and she was thirty-five, and when they were in college, it really hadn't seemed like such a big gap—some days, it didn't feel like any gap at all, but at times like this, it did. Sometimes it felt like ten years, sometimes it felt like even more than that, because Erin always looked so fresh-faced and young, because she still held onto that almost teenaged sense of stubbornness and defiance, because she still had moments of social snafus and still couldn't navigate their world with ease, despite the fact that she'd been a part of this social circle her entire life.

There wasn't anything wrong with her drive or her ambition. The trouble was that she simply channeled it in the wrong way. Women in their world became the wives of politicians and stock brokers and CEOs, and had children, and funneled their drive into fundraisers and nonprofit organizations and other lines of work that ensured they'd be home by 6pm and could take regular vacations. They didn't spend their days wading knee-deep in the darkest part of humanity's heart, cataloguing and dissecting violent crime as if it were the book club's book of the month.

She turned back to him, sending a dazzling smile zinging across the well-manicured lawn, and he couldn't help but smile back. He loved his wife, truly, he did—despite the fact that she could be exasperating as hell at times. That smile—oh, that smile!—was enough to wash away her little shortcomings, and he would do anything, give anything, just to see that smile.

They were happy and healthy, with one beautiful daughter and a shining son on the way. He could be content with that, for now.

* * *

**March 1995. Vienna, Virginia.**

It was gloriously, deliciously quiet in the Strauss house. Their two children were tucked in their beds and Erin and Paul were lying in their own, recovering from another quick round of sex (that was what Erin missed the most about life-before-children, the ability to spend an entire evening seducing and caressing and making love), silently listening to the gentle patter of rain on the window panes.

It was a good life, Paul decided with sudden clarity. It wasn't everything he'd wanted, but it was more than enough. In the stillness, he could hear his wife's breathing return to its normal pace.

"I think," she spoke quietly, almost hesitantly, as if she feared ruining the silence. "I think we should have another baby."

She rolled over, sitting up to peer into his face, her own features adorably quizzical as she gently asked, "Wouldn't you like another child?"

Her words filled his heart with warmth—this was the first time that Erin had ever been the one to broach the subject of children, the first time she'd ever actually expressed a desire in having a child (with Jordan, she'd simply acquiesced to his suggestion, and with Chris, it had been unplanned).

The smile on her husband's face answered Erin's question, and she felt a wave of relief.  _There's still a chance, I can still bear him a son that's truly his, and then I won't feel as if I've robbed him of so much_.

"I'd like that very much," he said softly, reaching up to trace the outline of her jaw. Not too long ago, he'd hoped that Christopher's birth would finally push her into becoming a stay-at-home mother, but it hadn't worked—she'd gladly taken her maternity leave, but as soon as it was over, she was back at the Bureau and just as happy as a lark.

Again, he found himself hoping, because this surely was a good sign—she was actually  _wanting_  to have another child. It was a shift, a change, a good omen. She'd waited years between Jordan and Christopher, but this time, their son wasn't even a year old and she was already pining for another one.

With each child, she was moving closer to his dream—with Jordan, she became a mother, with Christopher, she became more enamored and relaxed by motherhood, and perhaps with this third pregnancy, she would finally settle into the role that she was always meant to play.

He knew it was wrong, to place so much hope and expectation on a child that hadn't even been created yet, but it didn't stop the little voice in his heart from whispering,  _Maybe third time's the charm..._

* * *

**May 2013. Vienna, Virginia.**

Erin had apologized many times for all the ways that she'd failed Paul, but he suddenly realized that he'd never apologized for his own sins against her.

He'd forgotten who she really was. He had mistaken her for some soft and fragile thing, when all along she'd been a creature of blood and fire and steel. He'd taken a tiger, given it a collar and convinced them both that she was now a tame and meek little house cat. For years, she'd blamed herself for his unhappiness (and perhaps, if Paul were truly honest, he could admit that he'd blamed her as well), but now, he was confronted with the fact that it had been a two-way street—his own demands and needs and wants had made her unhappy as well.

They hadn't truly been well-suited for each other, he could admit that now with a wry grin. They'd met in college, still a bit naive and determined to change the world, and the sex had been great, and he'd seen such potential in what she could become—but now he understood that perhaps he should have loved her for what she was, not for what he thought she could be.

He knew that was why she'd loved her job so much, because she could still be parts of that fiery and fierce woman that she truly was, because she could channel those feelings and those impulses in a way that was healthy, and then she could still come home to be his loving, docile wife.

No wonder she drank so much. She had to numb herself down just to play the role he'd cast her in.

Deep down, Paul knew that was placing too much blame on his own doorstep—for as long as he could remember (even before he began making the small-but-sure demands upon her personality and her ambitions, even before he began trying to fit her into a box), Erin had issues with alcohol. Still, he wondered how much of her drinking had been directly linked to the burden of his expectations.

He was starting to see the old Erin re-emerge, after years of forced dormancy. He'd seen it a few weeks ago, at Anna's graduation, had seen that strange new spark in her eyes, that vibrant blush in her cheeks. He'd been stunned by how so much had changed—she'd even moved differently, as if she'd spent the past twenty years in a full-body cast and suddenly she was allowed to move in the way her body had been meant to, fluidly, freely, assuredly. He'd seen it over the past few days, the way she was more tender and open with the kids, the way she seemed more  _present_ , without the haze of alcohol. Obviously, the stress of recent current events had subdued her vibrancy, but the new creature was still there, just underneath the surface.

He saw it now, in the little changes throughout the house. His old study had become hers, and she had filled it with her favorite writers and poets, with her own memories and degrees and personality. The kitchen and living room were filled with fresh-cut flowers (they were waning now, because the past week had been filled with more important things, but the beautiful heavy scent of the withering lilies still drifted through the rooms) and her garden was back in prime shape.

However, the most noticeable change was in her bedroom. Of course, he knew that he shouldn't be going through her things, but since Anna was in the shower upstairs, Erin had allowed him to use the master bathroom for his own shower, and since she was in the living room, quietly reading a book until he was finished, Paul didn't see the harm in just taking a quick look around. After all, it used to be his room, too.

The bathroom had been completely overtaken by smooth cremes and delicious smelling lotions and utterly feminine hues and tones. This was no surprise, as Erin had always been a bit of a makeup maven and an absolute zealot about skin care.

The bedroom held the same furniture, in the same hues, but the bed itself was encased in a different comforter set, something darker and much more decadent than before. There was a book of poetry on the night stand, with a pair of Erin's reading glasses patiently waiting atop it, and he briefly wondered if she stayed up to read in bed, while her Italian lover dozed beside her, like she had done with him so many nights.

He glanced in the closet, not at all surprised to see that her own wardrobe had easily taken over the half that was once his. He noticed two black boxes on a shelf, and saw the shiny black letters scrolling across their fronts—Erin's new man apparently had expensive tastes in lingerie.

He shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be going through her bedroom or opening her closet, and he certainly shouldn't open the boxes.

But he did.

The first box was empty ( _so she's already worn that_ ). The second box still held a perfectly wrapped set, the black tissue paper ruffling to reveal a peek of dove-gray silk.

Of course, a peek wouldn't suffice. Paul gingerly pulled back the paper and held his breath at what he saw. A short grey silk kimono, trimmed in black lace, with ruffled matching bottoms, and a halter bra of supple black leather. Erin in leather. Now there was an image worth keeping.

He hadn't realized how much he missed sex with his ex-wife until that particular moment. She'd always been the more adventurous of the two, and he knew that in some ways, she had tailored her sexual preferences to his, though she'd always seemed to enjoy herself. And even though she'd tapered her proclivities, she was still more exotic than the women he'd dated since their divorce. Now he wondered how much he'd missed out on, simply because he hadn't given her the freedom to truly express herself.

He wondered if her Italian lover let her truly express herself.

He needed to stop. With a sudden surge of decisiveness, he closed the boxes and returned them to their rightful place. Sadly, he couldn't put away the images of his former wife, in those very same clothes (god, the woman had a body that was built for slinky fabric), with some younger man (he'd always imagined that Erin would go for a younger lover, she'd always had that rebellious Mrs. Robinson air about her). Ever since their separation almost two years ago, he'd wanted nothing but happiness for her, had wanted her to find someone, so that she wouldn't be alone—but now that he was faced with the reality of that wish, he suddenly realized that perhaps he still had some unresolved feelings for her.

With a frustrated sigh, he returned to the shower. He never should have allowed himself to go through her things, never should have opened the box. He was happy with where they were now, was happy with their separate lives, with how well they worked together for the good of their children.

Still, that contentment and balance did not dispel the images of lightly sun-kissed breasts encased in smooth, soft leather.

_What has been seen cannot be unseen_.

* * *

Erin realized that asking Paul to stay the night was not her best idea. He'd acted strange the rest of the night, and now, as she chopped up pieces of fruit for the poolside breakfast that the kids had decided upon, he was watching her with another unreadable expression.

It was the first time they'd been alone all morning, so she simply turned to him and bluntly asked, "What?"

"What do you mean, what?" He sat a little straighter on his barstool, which was across the kitchen island from her.

She gave him a look which informed him that she was not in the mood to play games. "You've been acting strange all morning. What the hell is going on?"

"Nothing," he replied.

Her lips formed into a thin line, but she didn't press the matter further. Instead, she pushed the fruit towards him, curtly informing him, "I'll bring the rest."

He knew that his evasiveness exasperated her, but he certainly couldn't tell her the truth— _oh, you know, I was just thinking about your new lingerie that I found while pilfering through your closet_. _Would you like to model it, for old times' sake?_

Definitely couldn't tell her the truth.

Mercy of all mercies, her cell phone buzzed right as she was sitting down for breakfast on the patio, sparing her the awkwardness of enduring Paul's odd behavior. She'd already received a call at 6am from Aaron Hotchner, who quietly informed her that their UNSUB had been apprehended.

"Hello, Agent Hotchner, I assume you're on your way back," she answered, not bothering with idle greetings as she re-entered the kitchen through the French doors.

"Yes, ma'am. We've only got about an hour left in-flight," he replied in his usual no-nonsense tone. He launched into a brief overview of the case—of course, one of their agents (Derek Morgan) had slightly breached protocol, but in the end, everything had worked out.

Erin merely rolled her eyes heavenward. There was a time when she would have given the entire team a right royal ass-chewing for such behavior, but now she was too tired to fight their constant stream of small insubordinations. She had accepted the inevitable fact that her best and brightest team was also her problem child, so to speak, and  _que sera sera_.

"And there were no new messages or taunts?" She asked the question that had been weighing on her mind from the moment they'd left for Missouri two days ago.

"No, ma'am."

"I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing anymore." She admitted with a heavy sigh.

"I don't either," Aaron replied softly, and there was a quiet moment of camaraderie between the two.

"Go home. Spend the rest of the day with your son," she ordered, though she knew it wasn't necessary.

"Will do, Chief."

Knowing that her agents were safe and on their way home gave Erin some relief. She turned back to the doorway, taking a moment to watch her family through the glass—even though she and Paul were no longer married, he was still part of her family (he was still the person who had known her for over three decades, who had been by her side through some very tough times, he was still the father of her daughters, forever a part of her heart and her life).

She shouldn't have asked him to stay last night. It was too strange, having him back in the space in which they'd shared so many moments and memories. After she'd returned from her 90-day detox, they hadn't seen each other very often, and Erin was realizing that it was a good thing. Having him over every evening for the past few days had been a little awkward at first, but she'd found it bearable because it was temporary, and he was only there for a few hours. But inviting him to stay overnight had put things on a completely different level, and in hindsight, Erin realized that it might be a place that they didn't need to go.

Gods, nothing could ever be simple. With a heavy sigh, she returned to the patio, where Anna was already regaling the rest of the family with some incident from the road trip to Somerset.

"Everything alright?" Paul leaned over, asking in a low tone so as not to interrupt their youngest child's tale.

"Yes. Fine," she offered a quick smile.

"Good," he nodded, smiling in return. For some reason, his response irritated Erin—he was so damned polite, so gracious all the time. David wouldn't have asked if everything was alright. He would have merely arched a dark brow, silently taunting:  _So glad you decided to join us, kitten._

Oh, David. How easily thoughts of him snuck into her brain, suddenly overwhelming her with a strange breathless need as she remembered the smaller parts of their life together.

She had known that it wouldn't end well between them. It wouldn't; it couldn't. Happy endings were for fairy tales, for people unlike them (because truly, after all they'd done, they didn't deserve happiness with one another, she certainly didn't deserve any at all), for couples in movies and books, for people with better luck.

She could accept that, because she had no other choice. She'd had her time, she'd taken what she could, and that was all that she could do. She had some good memories, had some bad ones, had some that walked the strange land in-between, but she didn't regret a single one, because all of them were inexplicably  _David_.

Her mind accepted this truth like the pragmatic machine that it was. Now if she could only convince her wayward little heart.

* * *

**Rural Virginia.**

David Rossi tossed his go-bag on the end of the bed, sighing from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. Despite his tired relief at another case closed, he actually felt a strange sense of energy—he'd gotten a nice little cat nap on the plane, and it was a lovely almost-summer afternoon. He should take Mudgie into the woods surrounding the house for a nice, long walk, something to clear his head after all the insanity of the past week.

After changing into more appropriate attire, he opened his closet and grabbed his tennis shoes—a small sound came from one of the shoes, which felt slightly heavier than the other. Turning it upside down, David stared in surprise as a small torsion wrench tumbled to the floor. He knelt, gingerly picking it up.

This was how Erin had let herself into his house, the night of his birthday surprise. She'd tucked it back into the pocket of her dress, and it must have somehow slipped out whenever he hung the dress in the closet, landing in his shoe.

How serendipitous.

He realized that he was actually smiling at this odd little quirk of fate. After Detroit, he'd known that he was going to forgive Erin (deep down, he'd always known, because he always did, no matter what), because he'd understood her reasons, had understood the circumstances and had accepted the fact that his own actions had contributed to the situation, putting her in this horrible moral quandary.

He had known he was going to fully forgive her, he just hadn't known when. He'd tried staying away, letting his wounds heal a little better before trying to find some working balance between them. Suddenly he knew that his wounds would never heal properly until he sat down and heard the whole truth from Erin Strauss.

He'd accepted the reality of their son. But he didn't know the whole story.

He needed to know.

Erin owed him that much, owed him the full truth, owed him the chance to sit down and sift through the ashen remains of all that was (and more importantly, he knew that she  _would_  give him all of that, if only he asked, because for the first time ever in their relationship, she'd become the one who gave, the one who acquiesced, the one who endured so that the other might be happy, though sadly that realization did not bring David any joy).

He stood up, giving the wrench one last glance before tucking it into his pants' pocket.

It was time to face the music.


	29. Spider Webs

_ "Nothing is perfect. Life is messy. Relationships are complex. Outcomes are uncertain. People are irrational." _

_ ~Hugh Mackay. _

* * *

**August 2011. Nantucket, Massachusetts.**

Erin gingerly lowered herself into the wooden rocking chair on the back porch, her body suddenly feeling so much older and so much more brittle from the weight and stress of grief. In the chair beside her, Andrew rocked calmly and steadily, his classical profile softened by the late afternoon sun.

Gods, he was such a beautiful boy. Even now, at forty years old, he still looked like Apollo or some other youthful and shining god of old, so perfect and handsome and worthy of adoration.

But Erin's golden boy was a mere mortal—a fact that had been made so painfully evident earlier today, when he'd sat the family down in the large living room (the same place they'd tumbled and giggled and imagined in as children) and had quietly informed them that he'd been diagnosed with Stage III liver cancer.

There had been tears, and a few questions, and then everyone had disappeared into different corners of the house to slowly come to terms with this new sharp-edged grief, which came so closely on the heels of the death of Jameson E. Breyer, the man of steel with a razor-sharp mind who'd devolved into an unknowing collection of bones and loose flesh.

As the eldest daughter (and now the unofficial head of the Breyer family), Erin still felt the need to fulfill the role of comforter, which was why she wasn't crying in her room, but rather sitting beside her younger brother, just as calmly as if he hadn't told her that he was dying a mere half-hour ago.

They sat in silence for awhile, their chairs creating the familiar groans against the worn wooden slats of the porch as they simply stared out at the horizon.

"Go ahead and ask, RT," he broke the silence, using her old childhood nickname (Erin had been shortened to Rin, which Peter had changed to Rin-Tin-Tin, just to annoy her, and then somehow it became RT for short).

Normally, she would smile at how well her baby brother knew her, but now it just brought tears to her eyes, because she realized that soon, that familiarity would be forever gone from her life.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing herself to remain calm as she quietly asked, "So, you're not seeking treatment?"

The corner of his mouth quirked into a wry smile, but he didn't turn to look at her.

"My highest survival rate is somewhere between 28 and 10 percent. I don't much like those odds." There was a pause before he added, "I don't see the point in fighting it."

"I see," was her only reply.

Now he looked at her, "You think I'm making the wrong choice, don't you?"

Her green eyes locked onto his, the ones that so perfectly matched her own, and the tears building at the corners slipped onto her cheeks. That was the only answer he needed.

"I'm not a fighter like you are, RT," he turned his face back to the sea. "Never have been, never had to be. All my battles were fought for me—not that I minded, and not that I blamed anyone for doing it. I just...it's just not who I am."

"And what about Lina?" Erin asked softly, reminding him of his girlfriend, who'd been with him for almost ten years now and who was currently upstairs (she wanted to ask,  _what about me_ , but she didn't, because she knew how childish and selfish that sounded).

"We're getting married," he stated matter-of-factly. He looked back at his sister's shocked expression as he gently explained, "I want her to be able to get full spousal privileges while I'm in the hospital, and afterwards, I want her to get the full benefits from my pension. And since...since I'll probably still be in office by the time that happens, as my widow, she'll be able to take my seat. There won't be a hasty election, and I can rest easy, knowing that she's going to finish what we started."

He gave a wry smile as he added, "You know, after my first wife, I swore I'd die before I got married again...and now...well, careful what you wish for, right?"

He was trying to dispel the grief with humor, because that was how he'd always been—the happy-go-lucky baby, the one who always found a way to make his family smile, the one who lived for the laughter and adoration of others.

She wanted to cry, and he didn't want her to, so as always, she forced a smile that could dazzle an entire room. That was how it had always been between them—she adored him, had always been more like a doting aunt than a sister, had always done whatever he asked, because she loved seeing him smile, and he returned her adoration, at times finding her more loving and maternal than their own mother (who was so tired of raising children and being the shining judge's wife by the time he came along), had always tried to make her smile, because when she smiled, he could see the love shining from her eyes.

She hated feeling so helpless. She reached over, gently taking his hand in her own.

"I'd give you my liver, if I could," she said softly, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she spoke with the full conviction of her heart, mind, body, and soul.

"I know." He replied quietly.

Erin grimaced as she turned her face back to the horizon, "Well, I'm not sure it'd be much help anyways—I'm pretty sure it's already shot to hell."

He gave a small snicker at the quip, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze—because he knew how big of a drinker Erin was and had been for most of her life (though she'd never told him how bad it had gotten, never told him about her 28 days in rehab, only Peter knew about that, because she so desperately feared becoming a failure in Drew's eyes, and she wanted more than anything to be the golden and glittering bastion of strength and dependability that he'd always thought she was).

With a small smile, he spoke again, "You know that's the real reason Peter calls you Rin-Tin-Tin—because you always try to save the day."

"Really? He used to tell me that it was because my nose made me look like a German Shepherd." Erin watched another smile creep across his face as she continued, "Of course, when we got older, sometimes he would say that I was acting like my namesake—it was the only way he could call me a bitch without getting a smack across the face from Mom."

"Peter always was the most imaginative one of the bunch," Andrew admitted.

With a small hum of agreement, Erin disengaged her hand from her baby brother's, standing and moving down the porch steps to inspect the flower beds, which were in a sad state due to lack of care. She leaned over, gingerly pulling out a few weeds, though she knew it was a losing battle—it had been nine years since anyone had paid any attention to these beds, and nature had reclaimed the land.

A few minutes of gentle silence passed as Andrew continued rocking, watching his sister in mild amusement. She reminded him so much of their mother in this moment.  _I'd give you my liver, if I could. I'd give you my life._

He knew that she didn't tell him everything—a part of him was grateful, because he didn't think he wanted to know everything (he quite liked the rosy, romanticized view he had of her, liked the ideal of his strong and determined RT, the flaxen-haired warrior of the family—the problem was that she  _was_  a warrior, and warriors were often bloodstained and battle-worn and bruised, and that wasn't the reality he wanted to have of her). He had noticed little things, like how she hadn't had a glass of wine at dinner for the past few days, how she'd seemed more "collected" over the past few months as they'd banded together and prepared for the inevitable loss of their father, and he thought that he knew what it meant, but he didn't truly want to know for sure.

He had noticed other little things, things which weren't quite as positive—how strained things seemed between her and Paul, how his brother-in-law didn't hold her hand like he used to, how they didn't stay in the same room for long periods of time, how her cheeks didn't glow the way they used to whenever the family spent the week out here. And again, he was sure of what it signaled, but he didn't want to know.

She was losing all of the men in her life—her father, her brother, her husband, everyone except for old dependable Peter (who probably did know all the things about her that Andrew didn't, who was closer with her on a different level, on more equal footing) and sweet little Chris (who wasn't so little anymore, but who would always be a wide-eyed kid in Andrew's mind). That was the thing that made Andrew feel the guiltiest, knowing that by refusing treatment, he was signing his own death sentence and depriving Erin of one more ally in this strange battle of life. He hated knowing that Peter and Carole and Lina still needed him, too, hated knowing that by choosing this noble route, he was hurting the people he cared about the most (though they'd never say so, no, because they loved him too much to make him feel bad about his decision, because they all wanted him to be at peace and free from pain). He hated that this had to happen so soon after their father's death, when they truly needed one another the most. He hated every single bit of this unfair game of life, which had decided that he had to be the one in this situation, faced with these impossible choices and this harrowing fate. More than anything, he hated that after a lifetime of being a source of laughter and joy to others, his condition was now the creator of so much grief and despair.

Naturally, Lina was his first priority. They'd known for about a week now, and she was already experiencing insomnia as dreaded anticipation began to creep through her bones (the same way the cancer had crept through his body, slowly but surely taking over). He hated knowing that he was the reason for the dark, deep grooves under her eyes (she used to say,  _A girl loves a guy who can make her laugh, and nobody's ever made me laugh the way you do, Drew_ , but now she didn't laugh quite so much). He loved Lina, she was a good and strong woman who hadn't blinked twice about his decision, who had simply begun finding ways to transition their lives towards an inevitable end. He knew her strength came from within, but her sanity and balance throughout came from a good support system of family and friends who would help her through the trying times ahead, just as they had helped her through so many trials before.

Erin didn't have that support system. Though she'd probably die before admitting it, she was in many ways still a lost and uncertain child, a loner who somehow, despite her looks and charm school background, was never very good at making friends (not like Andrew, who could charm anyone into thinking they were his bosom buddy in less than fifteen minutes). Her children loved her, but they were in no way equipped to become her friends and confidants, not in the way that her brothers had been, not in the way Paul was supposed to be.

This was too depressing to contemplate, and Andrew hated depressing things.

"If it spreads to my kidneys, I'll still expect you to give one up," he broke the silence, causing Erin's head to snap up at the pronouncement.

"Even if we aren't a match?" She queried, tossing a few more weeds onto the small pile that she'd begun to build.

"Absolutely," he vowed. He gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulder, "Just because, you know, I can."

She grinned at his words. "I think they're still in relatively good shape. Although I was hoping to sell one on the black market, to pay for the rest of Jordan's college tuition."

"What you do with the second kidney is completely up to you," he decreed magnanimously. "But the first one is mine."

She gave a wry grin, throwing a weed at her brother's smiling face. "I should have let the bullies down the street beat you up more often in grade school."

"Ah, you were always looking for an excuse to fight," he retorted, easily tossing the offending weed back into the flower bed, where Erin retrieved it with a slight sigh of feigned exasperation. "And it was the only way Dad wouldn't bawl you out for beating up the neighbor's kids."

"They deserved it," she gave a slight shrug, feeling no shame in the fact that on more than one occasion, she'd physically threatened kids that were half a decade younger than her, in defense of her little brother.

"They did," he agreed with a decisive nod. She simply grinned and shook her head wryly, returning her attention to the flower bed.

From the kitchen, Paul Strauss watched the quiet exchange between his wife and his youngest brother-in-law through the glass door that led to the back porch. It looked like such a peaceful scene, the two blond replicas of their parents, chatting and joking with one another—but Paul knew the darker truth that lay underneath, the heavy realization that there wouldn't be many more moments like this between them.

Instinctively, he knew that this would be Erin's last straw at sobriety. She'd survived Jameson's death because they'd been preparing for it for years now, and over the last few months, she'd gotten to say a slow and agonizing farewell to her father.

But fathers were supposed to leave this world before you. Little brothers weren't. Especially when that little brother was the family darling, the young and vivacious pride and joy of all.

He suddenly felt very tired. He knew the road that lay ahead for them—Erin's slow descent back into her alcoholism, the glassy-eyed stare at the end of the night, the way she seemed to leave her body whenever he tried to touch her, the way she confused sex with intimacy and the way she'd pretend that nothing was wrong while every fiber of his being screamed to be released from this hellish prison.

He realized that he didn't want to go through that again. He couldn't, he wouldn't, he  _shouldn't_.

He had been the good and faithful husband for almost thirty years now—and before that, he'd been the good and faithful fiancé, the good and faithful boyfriend, the good and faithful friend. He had been everything that Erin needed, had been her stability, her lifeline, her lover, her friend, her partner, and what had he received in turn?

That wasn't a fair question, and he knew it wasn't. Despite her shortcomings, she had given him three beautiful, intelligent, driven children, had supported him and loved him through many dark times, had tried to be what he needed as best she could.

He was struck with the painfully clear truth that it simply wasn't enough anymore. For years, he'd told himself to be content, that what he had been given was truly enough, but now he knew that it wasn't.

She was coming up the steps again, brushing the dirt off her hands onto her pants ( _it's just earth, it's a part of us,_  she'd say) as she gave a breathless laugh at something her brother said.

God, she was still just as captivating as she was the first time he met her—right now, she was sober, and her eyes were bright and quick again, her cheeks were slightly pink from the sun, her skin glowing with the first signs of exertion from her floral endeavors. Beneath the loose clothing was a body that was still quite lovely, which she would dutifully offer to him later that night (she was always so accommodating when it came to sex, he often felt that she didn't attach the same sentiments to it that most women did), and in which he would just as easily find release and satisfaction. And afterwards she would lay her head on his chest and cry over her brother, and he would lie and tell her that everything was going to be alright, and then he would kiss her to make her stop crying, would take her again to make her stop crying, and then they'd fall asleep and tomorrow she'd be stoic again. Then they would go home to Vienna and she would probably pour herself a glass of wine (because Paul still drank, occasionally, so they kept it in the house), and it would start all over again.

There would still be good moments in-between, and there were still so many bright memories from before, but god, it wouldn't be enough. Not anymore.

She walked into the kitchen, wiping her feet on the mat (she always ran around the house at Nantucket like a barefoot heathen) before walking over to him with a small smile, her arm easily snaking around his waist as she moved past him to the sink (she got dirt on his shirt, and that irritated him, because she didn't even notice, she was like a child that way).

"You alright?" He asked, more out of habit than concern.

"I suppose I don't have much of a choice," she answered truthfully, her back still turned to him as she washed and dried her hands. Suddenly she seemed much smaller. He watched her shoulders rise and fall, and he knew that she was taking a deep breath, trying to steady herself. That was enough to melt away his irritation (he knew that she was trying to be strong, that she was trying to hold herself together so that she could take care of everyone else, knew that it was taking everything she had not to simply melt into a puddle of tears and angry grief), and he walked over to her, wrapping her into an embrace.

"I don't—I don't know how I'm going to tell the kids," she admitted quietly, her throat tightening with unshed tears. Andrew had waited until the all of his nieces and nephews had gone out to the beach before sitting down his siblings and in-laws to deliver the news with Lina. The kids were still out enjoying the beautiful day, completely oblivious to the little tragedy that awaited their return.

"I'll tell them," he answered softly, kissing the top of her head as he felt her muscles relax in relief.

"I want to be there," she whispered. "I just...I just can't tell them myself. I don't think I could."

"I know," he replied simply, because he did know. He knew how Erin's tender mother-heart hated bringing any kind of pain into her children's lives, even if she wasn't the cause of it. He couldn't help but think (a little bitterly) that Carole would sit down and tell her own children the news—of course, Erin's little sister was better at dealing with crisis than she was. Time had proven that over and over again.

"I'm going to take a walk," she informed him, turning around and rising on the balls of her feet to give him a quick kiss, her hands firmly planted on his chest. She looked up at him expectantly, waiting for his response, but Paul took a step back.

"I think I'll stay here. Lina might need someone to look after her."

The slight hurt in her eyes was unmistakable, but she simply nodded in agreement, giving his arm one last pat as she disappeared out the door again.

He watched her from the kitchen window, her smooth gait traversing the dunes and sands with an easy familiarity that bespoke years of practice and experience. Normally, he would have gone with her—and that was what she had wanted, he knew—but so much had changed. He wasn't going to abandon her, not when she needed him the most, but he knew that he had to begin disentangling the strange web of enabling and codependency that he'd created with this woman over the years.

She needed to learn to walk alone.

* * *

**May 2013. Vienna, Virginia.**

It was horrible and sad that the moment when Erin needed him the most, Paul suddenly needed to escape their strange relationship with the feral clawing urgency of an animalistic survival instinct. Over the past two years, he'd often wondered that if he'd broken the cycle earlier, perhaps Erin wouldn't have spiraled into such a wreck that she'd ended up in a 90 day treatment program.

Looking at her now, as she sat at the edge of the pool with her feet dangling in the water, he wondered if she would have been this happy and healthy so many months sooner, if he'd had the strength and the courage to leave before he did. But at the time, he had thought that she needed him, thought that he needed to be there for her—now he could see it as it truly was, a pattern of dependency that had developed over the years, the inferred needs and implied resentments, the things he should have done, the things he never should have done, the way things could have been, the way things should have been.

_Coulda woulda shoulda._

Despite whatever images had filled his head at the sight of her new wardrobe, today he was reminded of why they were ill-suited. She was notoriously passive-aggressive and a bit of a sulker—as evidenced by the fact that she'd hardly spoken to him all afternoon, simply because he hadn't told her why he was acting so strange. Of course, she didn't act that way in front of the kids—whenever they were around, she was still all smiles and jokes and easy laughter (she'd always been so good at playing the role of perfectly happy couple, and even now, she was slipping into that old familiar pattern, even though it wasn't necessary anymore).

With analytical eyes, Erin watched Paul as he splashed around in the pool—Anna had tricked him into coming close to the edge, under the guise of asking him a question, and Christopher had snuck up and pushed him in (she was beginning to detect a pattern with her children and their love of throwing people into the pool). Paul had simply laughed and spent the next few minutes swimming around, still fully clothed. It was nice, seeing him relaxed, after the awkwardness that had occurred over the past few hours. She'd tried to avoid him, just because she wasn't sure what was going on, and part of her thought she didn't want to know. Of course, it's a bit hard to avoid someone who's constantly within a twenty-foot range of your person.

What she really wanted was for him to leave, so that she could simply enjoy the quiet calm of her own house, without having to worry about what he was thinking.

As if on cue, Paul did the exact opposite of what she wanted, swimming up to her with a cordial smile. She braced herself.

"I think I'll have to steal some of Chris' clothes," he announced, and this made her smile, because Paul was several inches taller than Christopher, and finding something that fit him would be interesting to say the least.

"I'll go find you something," she assured him, pulling her feet out of the water and leaving little wet footprints on the concrete as she grabbed her cover-up from the chair and disappeared into the house. Paul got out of the pool, grabbed an oversized beach towel, and went inside as well.

Erin was already on the staircase, stopping her upward trek to admonish him, "You stay downstairs—I don't want you dripping on the carpet. You can change in my room; I'll leave Chris' clothes by the door."

For some reason, that reminded her of the first night that David had come to stay—poor Christopher, his wardrobe was the lending tree for every other man who walked through these doors, apparently.

How she could find that amusing was beyond her, but Erin still smiled at her inner quip.

The front doorbell rang as she was coming down the stairs again, and she'd simply dropped the clothes beside her now-closed bedroom door as she continued into the foyer. She didn't even glance through the peephole as she opened the door (after all, she had two SUVs full of FBI agents in her driveway, why the hell should she worry about who was coming to her front door?).

Her heart stopped in her chest when she saw the face of David Rossi staring back at her.

David had a full speech prepared, a whole outline of exactly what he was going to say, and exactly how he was going to say it—which of course, immediately evaporated from his mind at the sight of her.

This was the closest they'd been since the evening in his living room, and the mere sensation of being in each other's presence sent odd sparks and old longings dancing underneath their respective skins like a bolt of pure lightning. A beat passed as they simply looked at one another.

"You're…you're here," she whispered, not caring that she sounded like some breathless damsel in distress from a cheesy detective film.

The love and the relief and the fear and the hopeless passion contained in those simple words made David forget his demands (he was going to sit her down, to politely and calmly ask her to tell him everything, remaining detached and unaffected, but as usual, what he wanted and what Erin Strauss made him do were two totally different things). What place did calmness and logic have in a moment like this, when she was falling to pieces in front of him, when all his heart did was jump and sing at her mere arrival, when suddenly all he wanted and all he needed was to feel her skin against his own again? How could he remain aloof and distant when every fiber of her being screamed out to every fiber of his being, which answered back with an equally deafening scream? How could he care about his pride and his hurt, when all he wanted to do was sob at the nearness of her?

They weren't in the office, weren't forced to pretend as if nothing had happened, weren't followed by watchful eyes and silent stares. They were simply alone, simply themselves, simply two hearts laid bare. Now was not the time for pride or strong defenses. Now was the moment of truth, of naked vulnerability, of pure unadulterated honesty.

So instead of saying what he thought was proper and right, he said the only thought that had been on his mind for what seemed like an eternity, the only thing that he knew would take away the fear and sadness in those green eyes that looked at him with some kind of anxious expectation.

"I told you, bella," he said softly, the tears evident in his voice as he watched her body react to the familiar nickname (the hitch of her shoulders, the hand at her chest as if it were holding back her wayward heart, the slight widening of those eyes that a man could lose himself in). "I told you that I couldn't give up on you, even if I wanted to."

She made a small noise in her throat, something between a cry and a laugh, as she clapped her hand over her mouth, her teary eyes still watching him cautiously, as if she feared that this was all some very cruel joke.

"Can I come in?" He asked, his voice still low and gentle.

She nodded quickly, not trusting herself to speak without completely breaking down into tears, as she opened the door a little wider for him to enter.

He brushed past her and her skin felt as if it had been set on fire. He turned back to her, watching as she closed the door, turning to him with an outstretched hand, which she quickly pulled back. It was that little movement—the hesitancy, the fear, the sadness, the longing, the pure devastation—that broke David's heart in the best of ways, and he ended her torment by simply pulling her into him, nearly sighing with relief at the familiar feeling of her body molding into his as her arms returned his embrace.

Erin Strauss didn't know why David was here, or why he chose today of all days to return, but gods, she didn't care, so long as he was really, truly here. The sheer comfort of feeling his body returning to hers was enough to make her cry, which she did, burying her face into his chest and tightening her arms around him as if she feared he might disappear again.

David could feel tears brimming in his own eyes again as he kept one arm around her, keeping her firmly pressed against him, his other hand moving to her blonde head, losing itself in those disarrayed curls as he relished the familiar scent and weight of the woman in his arms. There were questions that needed to be asked and answered, so much to sift through and understand, but they could wait just a few seconds longer as another part of his soul healed, the part that had missed her presence like the earth missed the sun.

"Erin? Erin, is everything Ok?"

The sound of another male voice went off like shotgun blast in the still house. David felt Erin's entire body seize as he disengaged, slowly turning around to see Paul Strauss, a towel wrapped around his waist as he held a set of clothes in his hands, peering from the doorway of Erin's bedroom.

The image landed like a sucker-punch in David's gut.

They'd been apart for a week and she was already back with her ex-husband.

Some things never changed.


	30. Shatter and Reset

_"The course to true love never did run smooth."_

_~William Shakespeare._

* * *

**May 2013. Vienna, Virginia.**

Paul hung his still-dripping clothes in the shower, smiling at his children's antics—really, he should have seen that coming. Anna always grinned like a madwoman whenever trickery was afoot, and she'd been smiling at him with an insanely saccharine expression that should have been a dead giveaway.

He heard the front doorbell, and that piqued his curiosity—who on earth would be visiting? Did the security detail even  _let_  anyone reach the front door without some kind of frisk or shakedown?

He wrapped the beach towel around his waist as he padded back through the master bedroom, quietly opening the door and stooping to collect the clothes that Erin had left.

That's when he heard an odd sound. It sounded like Erin was crying.

Erin never cried. Not like that.

He opened the door a little wider, craning his neck around the slight corner of the wall, "Erin? Erin, is everything OK?"

The man holding his ex-wife turned around, his face filled with absolute shock. Paul thought he looked familiar, and he felt like he should know this man from somewhere.

The stranger simply turned and walked out the front door.

Erin shot him the most venomous look that he'd ever seen, and that's when he realized how this all must look.

He also realized that he'd just met Erin's Italian lover.

* * *

"David, no. No. No, please—"

He was already walking back down the driveway, back towards his car parked on the curb, his head filled with anger and heartache as he tried to remember why he ever thought that this was a good idea.

She was coming after him, the tears and panic evident in her voice.

"David, please. Please!" She grabbed his elbow, whirling him around to face her, her fingers grasping his flesh, anchoring him there.

"Please," she repeated, this time in a lower, calmer voice. "It's not—it's not what you think—"

"And what,  _exactly_ , do I think it is?" He challenged, keeping his own voice low. There was a Bureau SUV less than 30 feet away, and he didn't much care to become a spectacle.

"He's here to see the kids," she answered, though she knew how lame that sounded.

"He was coming from your  _bedroom_ ," David hissed, the hot jealousy in his tone reminding Erin of that quiet morning by the pool,  _I am a jealous man when it comes to you, Erin Strauss...I covet every touch, every glance, every nuance of you_.

He still coveted her. He still cared. That would fill her with an unspeakably dark heat, if she wasn't so terrified of losing him again. But that was the fuel she needed, because it meant that there was still something worth fighting for, and gods be damned if she didn't fight tooth and nail for this man, this man above all others.

"He was just changing his clothes—Anna and Chris pushed him in the pool, you know how they are—"

He knew that she was telling the truth, but the simple domesticity behind her answer only increased the pain in his heart (his son was enjoying the beautiful day, was horsing around with the man whom he thought was his father, the whole family so blissfully unaware). He'd come here to speak to Erin, to begin sorting out this tangled web, because he was finally at a place where he felt that he could endure such hesitant and uncertain pain. But he wasn't ready to face Paul or any part of that reality (not yet, not when there was still so much he needed to understand first, so much he still had to process), so he turned away again.

But her hands were still firmly clutching his arms, and she pulled him back with a ferocity that surprised him, "Please don't. I can't—I can't—not again, not like this."

"I can't do this, Erin," he admitted, his tone so filled with hurt and weariness that she felt her heart break for him all over again, for all that she'd done, for all that she'd put him through, for all the little ways she'd damaged and broken this beautiful man. Oh, she'd walk across burning coals and shattered glass to repair the harm she'd caused, if only he'd let her (if only it were that simple, if only it were so easily mended).

She leaned forward again, her face just inches from his, her voice quivering with a hint of desperation as she demanded, "What do you want, David? Do you want me to tell him? I will, I'll go in there right now, I'll do it, I'll do anything, just don't—please don't—"

"Calmati, bella," he stopped her, because he knew that her fear was real, and he knew that she'd do just that, if she thought that it would bring him back. Those two words held an odd mix of tenderness and reprimand, and Erin didn't know how to react. He said that he couldn't give up on her, and yet he was walking away. He said he couldn't do this, but he was still calling her  _bella_ , still speaking so tenderly. It was such a terrifying juxtaposition and she didn't know how to bring them back to safety.

"Just don't leave." She prayed, closing her eyes.

He didn't say that he would stay, but he didn't move either. He was so close and so far, and her skin was aching at the uncertainty, at the need to just be in his arms again. She leaned forward, her forehead resting on his chest, her hands still holding his upper arms, not caring about her ex-husband still in her house or the agents in the vehicles looking on.

She wasn't trembling, but David could feel the odd energy coursing through her frame which told him that she was steeling every muscle in her body just to keep from shaking. She was putting herself further out on a limb than she'd ever gone for any man, and she was silently praying that he'd step out onto the uncertain branch with her—he could sense this, could almost hear the fervent hopes of her mind whispering just beneath the surface of her skin as she silently awaited his verdict, head bowed in a expression of mournful contrition.

She could always break him, with the simplest of gestures. She always broke him, with the words she didn't say, with the things she tried not to do, with the actions she held back. His iron-clad resolve was no match for her soft vulnerability, which could rend his defenses with startling ease. She always overwhelmed him with her presence, with all the tiny bits and pieces that stacked up to become an irresistible concoction, from the scent of her skin to the little stray curl of hair that escaped her bun to the gentle brush of her eyelashes on his collarbone, some strange sorrowful siren song that called to his deepest being. And in response to this deluge, he always granted her complete absolution, without thought or reason or conscious choice, simply because it felt  _right_ and  _completing_. This was no exception.

He tilted his head forward, and she instinctively moved as well, her forehead resting against the tip of his chin, the rough edges of his goatee filling her with so many little feelings of longing. They simply stood there for a beat before she quietly asked, "What do you need, David? Please, tell me."

"I need to talk with you. Alone."

She gave a slight nod as she pulled away, looking back at the house.

"We could…we could go for a drive," she suggested. He nodded in agreement. She motioned to the door hesitantly, "I need to—I have to tell them I'm leaving, or else they'll be worried."

He nodded again, turning to his car. In less than thirty seconds, she was outside the house again (at least this time she'd put on a pair of flip-flops), slipping into the passenger seat of his sports car. He tried to ignore the fact that she was wearing only a bathing suit and a thigh-length sheer cover up, because honestly, he needed to be thinking with the correct head right now. A part of him hated that fact that even now, she still held some allure, some power over his senses. It wasn't a fair fight at all.

They drove off, and silence filled the car as she waited for him to speak again. At her front door, things had been tearful and electric and soft and almost forgiving; then in the driveway, they had been rushed and panicked and insistent. Now there was an odd calmness, with anger and hurt dancing just beneath the surface as David truly thought about what had just happened and as Erin prepared herself for what was going to be an awful ordeal. When she'd gone back inside, she'd told herself that she couldn't be the weak, simpering thing that she was just a few short minutes ago, because she knew that David hated seeing her cry, and she didn't want to use that as a weapon. This wasn't a war, this was an act of atonement, and she'd stomach her wormwood like a true penitent.

After a pause, he gave a heavy, frustrated sigh, "You know, I thought I was ready to forgive you, and then this happens, and all this other shit just bubbles up, and I don't know how to feel about it anymore."

"I don't expect you to forgive me," she replied quietly. "I understand if you can't. I wouldn't—"

"Cut the bullshit, Erin," he snapped, suddenly tired of her meek and timid ways. "Stop playing the role of the fucking martyr—"

"The fucking martyr?" Her body felt a physical shock at the words. "I'm just trying to apologize—"

"You're trying to turn me into the bad guy," he corrected angrily. He hated seeing her so submissive, and he would do anything to bring the old Erin back, even if it meant goading her to fight. "You're trying to play to my sympathies, and I won't have it, Erin. I know you're stronger than that."

Her temper flared at the accusation, because playing to his sympathy was the one thing that she was trying not to do. It was so very typical of David, to turn her apology into some kind of weapon (this was why they didn't apologize for any of their fights before, for this very reason), and despite the fact that she'd promised herself that she would remain calm and repentant no matter what, she couldn't stop the words bubbling from her lips, "You sanctimonious bastard, you're the one who's acting like you've been stabbed in the back, when you know good and well that you're just as responsible—"

"Just as responsible? How the hell am I just as responsible?"

"I'm sorry, did you completely forget that night in Seattle? Because I have a crystal-clear memory of it, and I remember that you knew  _exactly_  what you were doing, and I certainly didn't have to coerce you to—"

"That is not the point—"

"Not the point? It's the whole reason we're in this mess!" She threw up her hands in exasperation. "And for Christ's sakes,  _stop_  at the damn stop signs! Those aren't suggestions!"

Of all times to criticize his driving skills, she chose now.

It was so typically Erin that David didn't know whether to laugh or to drive the car into the nearest lamp post.

He returned to the matter at hand, taking a deep breath and trying to remain calm as he pointed out, "This mess, as you so aptly put it, isn't about the fact that we slept together, or even the fact that you got pregnant—it's about the fact that you didn't tell me—"

"And how could I?" She turned in her seat so that she could face him fully, her face set in an angry mask. "What was I supposed to do, just call you up and say, 'oh, hey, Dave-O, thought you might like to know that you might be the father of my child'?"

"You should have told me, Erin—"

"And what would you have done?" She demanded. "Be honest, David, what would you have done?"

He didn't answer right away, so she continued, "You would have done the same thing you did a week ago—you would have asked me how I knew that it was yours. You would have denied it, you would have—"

"I would have been there for you!" He retorted, throwing his hand up, motioning back to her. "I would have been there for my son! I would never have left you alone to deal with this on your own."

There was a moment of awful silence as she simply stared at him. With an angry sigh, he kept his attention focused on the street ahead.

"I would never have left you alone like that," he repeated sadly, shaking his head as he thought of how terrified she must have been, of how many little fears and moments that she'd suffered through on her own.

The sorrow in his voice crumbled her anger. He wasn't upset that it had happened; he was upset that it had happened and she had endured it alone.

"If I had known that…if I had thought that you would do that, I would've told you," she answered simply, blinking back tears.

That was the answer that hurt the most—because after all they'd been through, she hadn't believed that he would be the kind of man who stood by her. Of course, that had been twenty years ago, and until this past year, they hadn't allowed themselves to truly be there for one another. They'd built their own prison and then wailed at the results.

God, they'd made an absolute fuckery of what could have been a beautiful and tender thing.

Suddenly, David's anger melted away, and he felt bone-weary. He pulled the car to the side of the street, putting it in park before turning to look at her, his dark eyes filled with a heartbreaking uncertainty as he gently asked, "If you had known, would you really have told me?"

"Yes," she admitted with a quick nod of her head. "I just—I didn't think you would want that, and I thought—I don't know what I thought, I just was so scared. I thought I was protecting you, protecting all of us."

There was a beat of silence as he contemplated her words, knowing the truth behind them. She'd never wanted to hurt him, and he knew that, which only made this situation even sadder.

"Would you have left Paul?" He asked the question that had weighed on his mind for days now.

"I don't know," she answered honestly, blinking back more tears. "If I'd thought that you'd really be there, that you'd stay, then perhaps, yes."

He simply nodded. She leaned across the seat, taking his face in her hands, making sure that his eyes met hers.

"I can't change what happened," she regretfully informed him. "I can't change the choices that I made. But I can make new choices now, and I'm saying that I choose you. I choose you, and whatever you want, and however you want to handle this—if you want us to tell them, then I'll go back and I'll tell Paul, and then we can tell Christopher together, and I can tell the girls. If you…if you just want to walk away…"

Her breath hitched at the words, as if they were literally a knife in her chest, but she bravely continued, tears slipping down her cheek, "If you just want to walk away and be done with all of this, then I'll let you do that, too. I'll let you do that, if it kills me. Because…because, goddammit, I love you, David Rossi, and this time, I am choosing you."

The poetry of Shakespeare, the greatest sonnets of ages past, the most artfully composed words of humankind, could not have truly touched David Rossi's soul the way Erin's simple declaration had.

She was right. They couldn't go back. More importantly, he didn't  _want_  to go back to what they were before—before, there were secrets and imbalances, resentments and demons and so many dark shadows, there was a gap between them, a gulf of what David thought they were and what Erin knew they were. He didn't want that, ever again.

They couldn't go back, but they could go forward. Because, deep down, David had always known that he would find his way back to Erin's arms, even if it was years from now. It was who they were, the inevitable pull of their mutual destinies, the predetermined outcome of their coinciding stories—history had proven this, time and again, regardless of what happened or how long it was between their reunions.

With bated breath, Erin Strauss watched these thoughts and emotions play across the face that she loved and knew so well, anxiously awaiting his decision.

In that moment, David Rossi fell in love with her all over again—after everything they'd been through, after every reason they had to hate each other for the rest of their lives, she was here beside him, still fighting with him, still fighting  _for_  him, still putting herself out on that unstable limb of love and hoping that he was still waiting to catch her.

She was here. Paul and the children (and their  _son_ ) were still waiting for them, but she'd left it all, just to prove herself. It was the reassurance that he'd always wanted from her, the deep kind of commitment that firmly threw her hat into his ring, and suddenly, he realized that he didn't want that at all—he didn't want her love for him to come at the cost of everything else. Because he loved her, just as deeply and as truly as she loved him, and he could never wish such heartache upon her.

"I understand why you didn't tell me," he admitted softly. "I've always understood, even when I didn't want to."

The relief in those grey-green eyes was so palpable that he could actually feel the air shift around them.

He continued, his voice quivering with every word, "And it's the same reason that we shouldn't say anything. I won't be the man responsible for destroying your family."

"Our family," she corrected softly, the tears flowing down her face once more. "Christopher is your son, and he's your family."

There was a moment of silence as she simply looked at him, her expression filled with adoration and sorrow and love and heartache and deep, deep remorse as she shook her head, "I'm so sorry, I've taken this away from you."

She pulled away, covering her face with her hands, "I hate myself for putting you in this horrible situation."

He reached over and grabbed her wrist, gently lowering her hands so that he could see her face again, "Bella. Bella, look at me."

With a small sniffle, she obeyed, and he continued, "You chose me. I chose you. And I chose everything that comes with it. You said you'd do anything I asked—you'd tell Paul, you'd tell Chris, you'd tell the girls—and I know you would. But I don't want that. That's a stain that would mark us for the rest of our lives, and I don't want that. I want us to be happy, I don't want to blame you and I don't want you to blame me. I want what's best for our son, and I don't want him to have to live with all of the fallout that a revelation like this could bring. I want to be a part of his life, and I want him to look to me as a father, to trust me and to love me like a son would, but I don't think that I should have to tear down every foundation of his world just to be able to claim him as my own, and I couldn't bring myself to destroy everything else along with it—your relationship with him, with Jordan and Anna, their relationship with one another. I could never do that."

She simply nodded, pressing her lips into a thin line as the tears continued to flow down her cheeks. He was a true father, putting his child before himself, and it broke her heart, knowing that Christopher would never know the sacrifice that had been made for him.

"He's a good boy, Erin," he said gently. "You did a good job, and so did Paul. He's a son that we can be proud of. And I am proud—I'm proud of what you've done, of the man he's going to become. I can't ruin that, Erin. I won't."

She nodded again, reaching over to caress his face as she quietly and somberly asked, "And this is what you want? You're sure?"

"Yes."

Another spring of tears welled up in her eyes as she whispered, "I just want you to be happy. And I want you to know that I never regretted this, never, not once, because I couldn't—I couldn't regret what you gave me. I love Christopher, with all my heart. He's my gift. The first time I held him, that's what I thought. I thought he was the sweetest gift that you could have ever given me. I just wish...I wish I could give that same gift to you."

"You can," he replied. "Just not in the way that you thought."

She began to cry again, and it was his turn to cup her face in his hands, pulling her closer to him as he gently wiped away the tears with the pads of his thumbs.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "After...after last year, I knew that I was going to tell you. I wanted to tell you so many times, and then the Replicator happened, and I didn't want to distract you, so I told myself that I would wait, and then—"

"I know," he said simply. Then he pressed his lips to hers with a firm tenderness. He could still feel her trembling against his mouth, could still feel her lips quivering, could hear the slow rumble deep in her chest, something between a sigh and a sob as his tongue found its way between her teeth. Her hands were in his hair now, pulling him closer, but they were still in the car and the awkward center console separated them, though it didn't stop her from leaning over, pressing into him as much as she could.

With a light sigh, she nuzzled his neck, quietly breathing, like a mantra, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so—"

"Bella." He stopped her by lightly placing his hand atop her head, keeping her close to him, shielding her from her own self-loathing. "I know. I know, and I'm sorry, too. Let's just forgive each other and move on."

She sat back, her red-rimmed eyes cautious as she asked, "Just like that?"

He couldn't help but smile at her response (after all, they generally weren't the forgive-and-forget types), "Just like that."

His expression sobered as he added, "There are still things I need to know—I still have questions that I need to ask, that I need you to answer."

She gave a curt nod of agreement, patiently waiting for him to continue. She was turned completely sideways in the seat, one leg tucked under her, the other knee pulled into her chest, all delicious legs and warm, bare skin, and David suddenly remembered all the other  _physical_  things he missed about her.

She understood the thoughts behind his gaze, because she suddenly blushed, her body feeling that familiar rush from the top of her neck all the way down to her thighs.

"And is there anything else you need?" She asked with feigned innocence, her eyes dancing mischievously. She shouldn't be teasing him, not when he was trying to be serious, not when they'd just finished having the most important conversation of their entire relationship, but it came so naturally that she did it without thinking.

That woman. She'd be the death of him for certain.

He began to chuckle at how quickly things always devolved between them. Then she was laughing with him, laughing in relief and amusement (because some things never change), and then they were both laughing in joy at the realization that after everything that had happened, they were sitting on the side of the road, laughing at nothing. Tears came again, but they were of a different hue—these were shed in merriment, in blessed gratitude for that which was lost and was now regained, in sheer relief as they felt things suddenly click into that sense of  _belonging_  and  _right_  again.

"This was hands-down the strangest fight we've ever had," she pronounced, wiping her hands over her face and gingerly trying to bring some sense of decorum to her wayward hair.

"I don't think we ever professed to be normal anyways," he reminded her with another grin, slowly putting the car in gear and pulling back into traffic.

She grinned in agreement, "I'm glad we're not like other people."

"Me, too," he softly replied. Then, something struck him, "Oh, by the way, you forgot something."

He shifted around in his seat, digging into his pants' pocket to pull out the torsion wrench and lock pick on a small chain.

Erin began to laugh again, the deep, full laugh that he loved so well. She took the wrench from his hand, looking at it with an odd sense of endearment. Then she grabbed his right hand with her left and kissed the ridge of his knuckles, her fingers easily fitting between his own as he felt her smile against his skin.

And somehow, just like that, things reset between them—just as easily as it had after all of their other fights, but with a newfound joy at the realization that somehow, this break and this resetting was something more solid, something deeper, something lasting. Heaven knows there would be so many more fights after this (after all, tigers can't change their stripes), but now, they could look ahead and know that somehow they would make it to the other side, with the deep kind of certainty that settled into their bones with a reassuring weight. It was calming and exhilarating and brand-new and final, all at the same time.

"Where are we going?" She shifted back into a normal seating position.

"We are going back to your house. We are going to say hello to our son, and then you are packing a bag and coming with me." He stated this so calmly, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

She gave a low hum of approval, "I like this plan."

There was a moment of contented silence before she quietly added, "I'll answer anything you ask, David. I need you to know—that was the last part of me that you didn't know, the last part that I tried to hide. You know all the rest."

"Thank you," was his only response, and she seemed to understand that those two words held so much more, because she simply squeezed his hand reassuringly, her thumb softly rubbing his skin in a comforting gesture.

David smiled as he began navigating his way back to Erin's house—as usual, nothing about this afternoon had gone according to plan (nothing ever did when Erin Strauss was involved, this blonde hurricane that had blown into his life all those years ago, this unnerving and endearing tempest, this strange malady that flooded his mind and emotions and overtook his freewill, this flawed and fragile and fierce woman so uniquely suited to his soul), and as usual, he found that the result was so much more rewarding.

They arrived back at the calm grey split-level, and with one more deep breath, they were back in the house again, with David and Paul exchanging awkward hellos and Paul apologizing for creating the misunderstanding (David easily forgave him, knowing all the unknown ills he'd created in the other man's life). Jordan hugged David heartily, and Anna was looking at her mother with a sly grin ( _I know what you've been up to, young lady_ ). Even Christopher hugged David, and it took everything the older man had to not keep holding onto him.

"We haven't seen you for a few days," Chris reminded him, casting a conspiratorial glance at his older sister. "We were getting worried—we thought we might have to rush out to avenge our mother's honor."

"Christopher," Erin hissed, mortified that her children were discussing her sex life in general, much less in front of her ex-husband.

David Rossi had to laugh, because, honestly, it was moments like this that made it evident that this young man was his son.

"We've decided to spend the night at Dad's place," Jordan announced, easily saving her mother from further embarrassment.

"Speaking of," Paul turned back towards the open French doors. "I need to finish cleaning the grill, before we leave."

With one last nod to David, Paul excused himself from the conversation. Surprisingly, it wasn't as awkward as it could have been. He'd finally figured out how he knew David, and that of course raised a few questions, which he'd pushed to the back of his mind.

Erin didn't miss the twinkle in her daughter's green eyes as Jordan added, "We thought you might enjoy having a night to yourself."

"How thoughtful," Erin mused.

"We can leave earlier, if you'd like," Jordan suggested, her eyes bouncing between her mother and David Rossi.

"Actually, we've got late lunch reservations," David replied smoothly, his hand easily resting on the small of Erin's back.

"Um, yes, we do," she quickly picked up the lie. "So I'm just gonna get ready and we're going to head out. Stay as long as you like, just make sure you lock the doors when you leave."

She directed her next order at Anna, "Set the alarm, too."

"Aye, Cap'n," her youngest gave a mock salute.

Gently taking David's hand, Erin disappeared into the master bedroom.

Her eyes still locked on the now-closed door, Jordan leaned slightly towards her brother, "Late lunch reservations, are you buying that?"

"Not even for a second," he replied without missing a beat.

"It's cute, though," Jordan decided drolly.

"Our mother is the world's worst liar," Chris shook his head as all three siblings turned and went back to the pool.

* * *

David turned back to Erin as she quietly closed the bedroom door, "Do you think they believed that?"

"Not even for a second," she answered, moving towards him. "And I couldn't give a damn."

The instant they closed the gap between them, all hell broke loose. They both reached for each other again, this time smiling mouths met, rediscovering and reloving and reassuring, as hands wandered, their pressure becoming more insistent. She was moaning into his mouth and he was chuckling as he tried to shush her (tried but failed and didn't really mind his failure).

He pulled away, breathless and happy as he whispered, "You've got to actually pack your things, bella."

With a slight huff of feigned displeasure, she moved back to her closet, easily finding a small weekender bag and tossing it on the bed.

"Just pack whatever you need for work tomorrow," he instructed her. "You won't be needing clothes for anything else."

She grinned over her shoulder at him, her pulse already quickening at the thought. If there were an Olympic event for fastest bag packing, she would have won the gold medal and probably set a new world record. David gladly assisted her out of her cover-up and bathing suit, and then not-so-helpfully helped her into a simple summer dress (his hands were roving too much, his mouth was recapturing her own and tasting her flesh and making her want to take the clothes off, not put them on), and Erin didn't even have the good grace to pretend to be upset by his actions (because her hands were too busy returning his caresses, her mouth too busy seeking out his own, too busy trying to pull at his own clothes).

She moved away again, pulling her hair out of its bun and quickly brushing it, trying to look a little more presentable, though the light in her eyes and the bloom in her cheeks and the delicious pink stain across her chest were dead give-aways.

"You see what you do to me, David Rossi?" She shook her head in feigned disapproval.

"I do," he grinned, moving forward to place another kiss on her exposed shoulder. His lips brushed her ear as he whispered, "And I'm just getting started, kitten."

The sound she made in response was the most delicious thing that he'd ever heard. He turned, gallantly grabbing her bag off the edge of the bed and motioning to the door. She eagerly exited, stopping by the pool to kiss her children goodbye and to give a slightly awkward smile to Paul, who simply nodded and waved her on.

David was waiting for her at the front door (her kisses and caresses had created a noticeable reaction in his pants, and he thought it best not to parade around in front of the family like that), smiling as she rejoined him, "Let's just take my car. I'll drive you home from work tomorrow."

"Such a gentleman," she purred, slipping past him, her fingers trailing down his side.

They walked to the car, grinning like two giddy teenagers. David tossed her bag in the trunk, and when he slid into the driver's seat, he couldn't help but notice how the hem of Erin's dress had oh-so-innocently crept up the curve of her thigh, revealing so much delicious flesh, which he knew would feel so soft and taste so sweet on his lips.

As they drove off, he placed his hand on that soft, warm thigh, just as naturally as if he'd done it every day of his life. She grinned in response, "Getting an early start on the seduction, are we?"

"The word  _start_  would imply that I stopped seducing you in the first place. And who says I ever stopped?" He returned smoothly, and this earned him a low hum of amusement.

"So freezing me out for the past week was also part of your grand seduction?" She arched her eyebrow. God, she never pulled a punch—and David had to admit that was part of her charm.

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," he replied philosophically, and she laughed at the quip. They came to a stop sign (this time he took Erin's advice and fully stopped) and he turned to look at her, his voice becoming lower and warmer as he gently queried, "Are you saying that your heart didn't miss me, bella? Are you saying that you didn't yearn for my presence?"

His hand moved further up her inner thigh, and the double entendre behind his words did not go unnoticed by Miss American Lit. Her throat tightened at the sensual roll of his words, and at that moment, it wasn't her heart that pounded with longing for him.

She shifted closer to him, her right leg crossing over her left and capturing his hand between both of her thighs, her head leaning forward to nuzzle his shoulder, lightly nipping him through the fabric of his shirt.

"Well-played, Mr. Rossi." She murmured, her tone matching his in timbre and desire. "Well-played."

He grinned, turning his attention back to the road ahead (and perhaps pressing his foot on the gas pedal just a little harder than usual, perhaps bumping up his speed just a little more).

"This will be the first time we've had make-up sex," Erin pointed out. He didn't have to look at her to know that she was wearing a devilish grin—he could feel it radiating from her, dancing at the edges of her voice. She leaned over again, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper as she prompted, "You know what they say about make-up sex, don't you, David?"

His mischievous grin mirrored her own, because he did know. His hand was still happily trapped between the smooth flesh of her thighs, and now her fingers were running up and down his forearm, just enough to cause his skin to ripple and spark under her touch, and suddenly he thought his entire body just might combust.

Oh, that woman. She would most certainly be the death of him. But oh, what a way to go.


	31. Scheherazade

_ "What we find in a soulmate is not something wild to tame, but something wild to run with." _

_ ~Robert Brault. _

* * *

**May 2013. Rural Virginia.**

Erin had cried more in the past few hours than she had in the last six months. She'd cried in relief at his arrival, had cried in fear of losing him again, had cried in remorse of past actions, had cried in joy at reconnection, had cried in happiness whenever he was finally inside her again (where he belonged, where he always belonged), and now, as she lay curled up in his arms, she felt tears appearing again for all that could have been but never was.

"Cosac'è?" He asked gently.  _What's wrong?_

"Niente." She replied softly.  _Nothing._  By now, she'd learned just enough Italian to hold short, semi-fluent exchanges.

"Liar," he kissed the top of her head.

"You...you asked me, earlier, if I would have chosen to stay with Paul," she pushed forward in a quiet tone. He gave a small hum of remembrance, which prompted her to continue. "I said I didn't know. And I still don't. But...but I don't regret staying. If I hadn't stayed, I wouldn't have Anna. I don't regret any of my children. And I'm not sure what that means, exactly, because I do think about how my life would have been different, if I had been brave enough to say no whenever Paul asked me to marry him. I would have been single when I met you, and you would have been single at that time, too, and maybe things would have been different. But I can't—I can't help but be glad that it wasn't that way, because there are parts that I wouldn't trade for anything."

"I understand," he held her tighter. With a wry grin, he added, "It's probably for the best, the way things worked out."

"You think so?" She sat up, turning her face to his.

"Think of who we were twenty years ago. Imagine those two people trying to live together. We probably would have killed each other, bella."

She grinned in agreement, "Yeah, but the sex would've been off the charts."

"Excuse me," he sat up, too, in an air of mock outrage. "Are you implying that it isn't off the charts now?"

She played along, giving a slight shrug of her shoulder in feigned nonchalance.

"You have wounded my pride, madame," he informed her in a serious tone.

"Certainly not my intention," she purred, her amusement belying her words as she leaned over to recapture the mouth that was trying so hard to look serious. Between kisses, she sweetly asked, "Is there anything I can do to soothe your wounded pride, my love?"

"I think the only solution would be for me to prove you wrong," he answered, his hand cupping the back of her blonde head and pulling her deeper into his mouth.

She gave a small hum of approval, pulling away to cast a doubtful eye at the dusky late-afternoon light that was drifting through the bedroom windows. "Well, I'd say you've got a little over thirteen hours to prove your point, so I'd get started if I were you."

"Do you honestly think it'll take me that long?"

"Sometimes I can be very hard to convince," she returned easily, and he chuckled in agreement as his mind went back to so many stand-offs and freeze-outs and battles before.

"Trust me, kitten, I know."

There was a warm flutter of happiness deep inside her chest at the truth behind those words—he did know, he knew better than anyone, more than anyone, deeper than anyone. She had once feared that no one would ever truly know every side of her, because of all the secrets she'd kept, all the pieces that had remained in shadow, but now she knew that one man (a man of fire and steel and softness and kindness and infuriating stubbornness and skin-scorching passion) did know every side of her, had lovingly (though sometimes unwillingly) witnessed every aspect of her character, had seen and heard and known and still loved her, through it all.

Perhaps for the first time in her life, someone saw her as a whole.

At this particular moment, that certain someone was at her throat, his lovely mouth caressing her skin in a firm-but-gentle way that was already re-igniting the fire deep in the cavern of her hips. She suppressed a grin as she willed herself to remain absolutely still, pretending to be unimpressed and unaffected by his ministrations.  _Try harder, darling._

He laughed at her control, at how well she kept her hands at her sides, at how well she fought the urge to respond, even though he could feel the pulse point on her neck quicken and hum at his touch, even though he could feel the heat radiating off her skin, could see the way her freckled chest flushed and her pert little nipples hardened. Her skin had the light salty taste of sweat, and his grin deepened and his own pulse quickened as he thought of how he'd had her sheening and panting and crying for him earlier that afternoon—he'd push her even farther this time.

Still, she was putting up a noble front, not even flinching when his hands cupped and caressed her breasts, or when one hand slipped around to the curve of her ass, pulling her closer to him. She obviously was willing to play this one to the teeth, and the thought only incited David further.

 _Challenge accepted_. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her forward and tossing her back onto the mattress in one fluid motion, with just enough force to elicit a small, breathless gasp of surprise from his blonde companion. Planting his hands on either side of her shoulders, he hovered over her prone form, taking a moment to stare into those eyes that changed and muted like the sea, those eyes that could drown him with a single glance.

She'd reigned her surprise back in check, because the corner of her mouth merely quirked into a slight smile as she coolly asked, "Is that all you've got, Dave-O?"

She was using his old nickname, the one she'd given him in response to the formerly-hated moniker of kitten, using it in the same way he used her epithet (as a pin-prick, a prod, a provocation), smiling so sweetly at him, so wickedly innocent and coy, so fully aware of the effect her words and actions had on him. God, he'd forgotten how magnificent she could be, when she put her mind to it. It was such a stark contrast to the wan and tearful woman who'd been there just hours before, and he silently swore he'd do anything to ensure that she'd never become that sad and fearful creature ever again.

"Are you saying that I haven't had any effect on you whatsoever?" He asked warmly, his tone still holding the hint of a challenge.

"Not that I can tell," she answered in her best bureaucratic tone.

"Well, I happen to be trained in nonverbal cues," he reminded her, leaning in until their noses almost touched.

"Are you, now?" Her voice dipped lower to match his, but it was tinged with amusement. She was biting her bottom lip to keep from grinning, but it wasn't working, because her eyes still smiled. He was hovering over her, his body so close that she could feel the heat and pressure of it, even though it wasn't touching hers, and she could feel the thrill of anticipation bubbling up her spine—oh, this,  _this_  was why she loved to push him so, when he became all dark eyes and knowing smiles and smooth voice and self-assured movements. So, of course, she goaded him a little further, "And what cues do you see, oh master profiler?"

The taunt in her voice was unmistakable, and it only increased the fire moving beneath his veins. And so, of course, he had to prove his point.

"Exhibit A: your pupils are dilated. A sign of desire," he breathed the word on her lips, though he didn't kiss her, didn't give her the satisfaction of tasting him again.

"They're just trying to adjust to the low lighting," she countered smoothly. He gave a slight shrug—he'd give her that one. He moved further down, gently suckling the pulse point just below her jaw line before continuing.

"Exhibit B: your pulse has quickened."

"Perhaps I have a medical condition."

He chuckled softly, because really, he hadn't expected anything less. He shifted further down the mattress, giving himself better access to her breasts, "And the oh-so-aptly labeled Exhibit C—"

This earned him a light laugh, which was cut short by a sudden intake of breath as his mouth landed on a taunt nipple. Still, her hands stayed calmly at her sides (normally they would already be caressing his dark head, encouraging him and pushing her flesh further into his mouth), and he couldn't help but grin at her willpower. He made slow, luxurious circles with his tongue, his dark eyes twinkling as they flicked upwards to catch her expression, her fluttering eyelids and her lips pressed tightly together to suppress the moan that he knew was building in her lungs.

Then, just as quickly as he'd alighted on her flesh, his lips withdrew, and he felt her sinking back into the mattress in frustration. Taking the other nipple between his fingers, he gave it a slight tweak, "Another sign of arousal—"

"Or it could be cold in here," she replied, fighting the breathy tone that clawed its way up her throat as her breasts ached for his touch.

He leaned forward again, giving himself a better angle of her face as his hand moved in the opposite direction. She knew what was coming and he watched as she tried to brace herself when his hand slid to the warmth between her thighs.

"And finally, I give you," he paused for dramatic effect (he was nothing if not a dramatic bastard, her tantalizing and infuriating lover) before pressing his finger between her already-wet folds, easily finding the pulsing bundle of nerves, smiling triumphantly at how she gave a slight gasp at the pressure. "Exhibit D."

That finger slid further down, into her hot, silky channel, quickly followed by two more, as his thumb resumed the pressure and friction against her clit. His fingers gently pushed outward, filling her even more as he slipped another layer of patronizing indulgence into his tone, "Are you still denying my effect on you, bella?"

And though she looked as if she wanted to simply fall apart then and there, damned if she didn't reply in her most bored and unaffected tone, "Beginner's luck."

God above, if he wasn't already in love with this woman, he'd fall for her then and there, with her killer poker face and her knowledge of just how to make him want to laugh and scream at the same time. She didn't fold easily, even when she knew she had a losing hand (it was a point of pride, a kind of stubborn willfulness that he understood and respected, the endearing flaw that made his own chest fill with pride to know that she'd chosen him, above all others).

"I will have you know that I am far from a beginner," he retorted smoothly, and the grin she gave in response informed him that she was well aware of this fact as she arched her hips, silently asking his hand to continue its movements, which he obliged.

"One would hope so, for a man of your age," she replied dryly, closing her eyes as she concentrated on the feeling of fullness that his fingers created for her and trying not to look too pleased with herself for somehow retaining composure throughout this delicious exercise.

"Hey, you're not exactly a spring chicken either, kitten."

"If that's part of your attempt to seduce me, your method leaves something to be desired," she pointed out in a droll tone, and he laughed in response.

"I love you just the way you are," he assured her warmly, his thumb changing pace and pressure as his fingers curled to find the web of nerves that would send shots of heat through her entire body.

"Your method is improving," she gave a contented feline smile, suddenly closing her eyes once more as her body began to react to his ministrations. Now her hands moved from their posts at her side, reaching up to trace the outlines of his chest and shoulders. He was leaning forward again, his face so close to hers, and she opened her eyes, peering into his dark ones as her hands gently cupped his face.

"You know, there are three words that you can say that will topple me every time," she admitted in a husky voice, no longer trying to fight the heat building and seeping through every pore of her body.

He feigned confusion as he guessed, "'You were right'?"

She gave him a light spat on the shoulder, her expression reprimanding, though her tone was still filled with adoring amusement, "You ass."

"I'm an ass who loves you," he replied tenderly, grinning at her reaction to his words. He lowered his head, reclaiming the supple skin on her neck as he innocently asked, "Are those the words you're looking for, bella?"

His voice dipped into a velvety purr as he continued his little guessing game (though he already knew the answer), finishing each question with another caress of his mouth, another push of his fingers inside her tightening core, "Ti amo? Ti voglio bene? Je t'aime? J'ai envie de toi?"

"Yes," she breathed. "C'est ça—c'est exactement ça."

Her hands were moving downward as well, her fingers moving around his to gather her own wetness as she reached for his cock, which was already hard and pulsing in her hand, slowly stroking it as her other hand wrapped around his neck, pressing his moaning mouth against her flesh.

Now, she'd been a very good student during her Italian lessons, and she had learned that certain things only added to her lover's flames, and so she brushed her lips across the shell of his ear, letting her hot breath add to the fervor behind her words, "Voglio che mi ami."

"Appassionatamente?" He asked, his own lips moving to her ear, nipping the lobe.

That word wasn't in her vocabulary (yet), but his tone was enough of a context clue for her to simply reply, "Sì."

He growled in pleasure at her answer, his mouth suddenly clashing into her own. She eagerly granted him access, her tongue welcoming him back before overtaking him. The simple taste of him on her lips again shot sparks through her skin, and he felt the first hint of her orgasm trembling against his fingers.

"I love you, bella," he whispered fiercely, knowing that his words would push her further to the edge.

"I love you, too, but please stop talking," she replied, her breath catching as another wave rumbled through her body.

He merely chuckled at her response, understanding the unspoken half of her request ( _please stop talking and just fuck me_ ). She pulled her hand away, pushing David's fingers from their task—she couldn't be content with a simple hand job when all her body wanted was the unique euphoria that only came when he was truly inside of her. He seemed to understand, because he sat back, raw and red and wanting and waiting for her next move.

She rolled on to her stomach, lifting her hips invitingly, and he easily moved behind her, his hands fitting so perfectly around the curve of her hips that he was fairly certain that God (or perhaps the devil, he wasn't sure) had truly designed this woman as his perfect match.

He loved this woman. He also loved infuriating her and occasionally getting her to admit defeat. So instead of immediately plunging into the welcoming silken heat between her thighs, he waited, taking the time to ask, "So, are you now willing to admit that I  _do_  have some effect on you?"

She made a sound that was somewhere between a huff and a growl. "David Rossi, you are an insufferable bastard."

"So...that's a yes?"

He saw her shoulders shaking with unvoiced laughter at his persistence, as she gave an aggravated groan, "David—"

"Is that a yes?" He queried again, his finger returning to her swollen bud, causing her to jump as the pressure shot another hot dart of longing and need straight through her.

"Oh! Yes," she replied quickly, so willing to say anything that would convince him to relieve the heaviness building and coiling around her pelvic bones. Still, she was laughing, in a breathless way as she teetered along the edge of release.

He continued the circular motion of his finger, watching as her muscles contracted and reacted to his movements, her fingers clutching the bed sheets with the primal fervor of a drowning person.

"David," her voice held a warning tone, a pleading insistency that made his cock twitch in anticipation. Still, he had a point of pride to prove ( _off the charts, remember, bella?_ ) so he waited just a little bit longer, taking a certain delight in the small pants and huffs coming from the blonde form beneath him.

He sensed it before he actually saw the shiver and tightening of her muscles, and that was when he acted, easily moving forward and pushing in as deeply as he could, his own moan of pleasure matching Erin's as he felt her first orgasm ripple through her entire body and tighten against him. He simply waited for the tremors to subside before he actually started moving, pulling her hips up further and bringing her onto her knees, not even trying to fight back the grin that spread across his face at her breathless mews that accompanied each thrust of his hips. She was recovering, her back arching into his grasp again as she transferred her weight to her left hand, reaching back with her right to simply place her hand over his own, her fingers intertwining with his.

That simple gesture spoke volumes, and it brought forth a flood of memories (she'd held his hand just like that, the night in Seattle, the night they created Christopher, the night their lives changed forever) and David felt his own orgasm slamming into him like a tidal wave as strange and mixed emotions tumbled in his chest. Her fingers tightened their grip, silently encouraging him to continue, to let go, and he felt the glorious release at last, as she quickly followed with a cry that reached a decibel level he'd never heard from her.

He collapsed onto the mattress next to her, and she rolled to her side, pulling herself back to him with a deep sigh of approval.

"I'm still not fully convinced," she murmured, though her lust-saturated tone belied her words.

He began to laugh at her obvious lie as she pushed herself up again, pressing her breasts against his abdomen as she left languorous kisses across his chest and shoulders.

"Could've fooled me," he retorted.

"I'm not saying that you didn't make a good argument," she corrected. "I'm just saying that I'll need a little more persuading."

He chuckled again, "You always were a stubborn woman."

"And you love it," she purred in return. He hummed in agreement, reaching to take her head in his hands and draw that smart mouth to his own. Their bodies were both still shimmering and singing, and the mere sensation of their skin brushing against each other elicited more shivers and sighs.

"I am convinced of one thing," she admitted, pulling back so that she could look into those dark brown eyes. "I'm certain that I love you."

He smiled as she kissed him again, her tongue pushing back into his mouth with such sweet ardor that he felt his heart melt all over again and his fingertips traced the outline of her face, down the column of her throat and across the soft slope of her shoulder. When they drew apart for air again, his fingers delved back into the completely disheveled curls, gently guiding her head to his chest again as he whispered, "Rest, bella. You're gonna need it."

She happily obeyed, pushing back her own giddy rush of anticipation and schooling her voice into a more unaffected tone as she pronounced, "I plan to hold you to that, Mr. Rossi."

He grinned at her challenge. "I wouldn't have it any other way, Miss Strauss."

* * *

By the time they awoke, the sun was setting, sending the last fiery rays through the large bedroom windows and warming their skin.

"Let's go for a walk," she suggested suddenly, raising onto her elbows so that she could look down into her lover's face. "I don't get much nature in the suburbs."

He smiled softly, remembering so many times from past cases, when she would go off in search of some connection to the natural world, because it somehow calmed her, somehow spoke to the earth child within.

He sat up, planting one last kiss on the small of her back before getting out of the bed, and she rolled out after him. They merely slipped back into the clothes they'd shed on his bedroom floor and she didn't even bother trying to fix her hair. Her skin was glowing and she still smelled of sex and David knew that this was the Erin he'd waited his lifetime to know, the variation he'd hoped to someday experience along the tumbling path of their life together.

She smiled over her shoulder at him, taking his hand in her own as they went down the stairs, and they both felt another little piece of their hearts simply click together.

Mudgie yipped and danced around their feet as they began walking across the vast lawn, heading towards the darkened tree-line (they'd snuck out the back door to avoid being seen by his security detail, though David didn't miss the opportunity to remind Erin of how angry she'd been at him previously for ditching his assignment).

Once they were under the cloak of the foliage, they began to see short bursts of light flickering around them.

"Oh, fireflies," Erin breathed, almost reverently, her eyes widening. "That was one of the things I missed the most about moving from Somerset to D.C.—we couldn't go out into the backyard and catch fireflies during the summer."

"You want me to catch you one?" He asked, only half-joking. Walking into the twilight woods was like entering some strange little world for just the two of them (with Mudgie, of course), and he liked the idea of watching her face light up at such a simple and heartwarming offering.

"They look a little too fast for you," she replied, knowing it would only goad him into trying.

"We'll see about that," he countered, and she grinned in response. He let go of her hand, heading off in search of his prey, and she felt another wave of joy wash over her at the simplicity of this moment, of the almost childish nature that they brought out in each other.

Soon, she found herself laughing at his attempts to catch one, and then she was joining him, biting her lip in concentration as they tried to corral the flying bits of light.

He was so proud of himself when he finally caught one between his hands, cupping them to form a tender cage. She stood next to him, slightly breathless and elated at his triumph.

"Here," he gestured for her to cup her hands as well, which she did. He quickly deposited the bug into her palms, and she gave a slight yip at the feeling of the creature beating against her fingers as it tried to escape. He laughed at her, and she laughed with him.

"I'm not used to holding them like this—we just caught them in jars," she cringed, opening her hands and shaking them so that the insect would fly off. "I suddenly remember why I don't like bugs."

He chuckled again, kissing her forehead as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder. They continued their trek through the woods.

"Christopher went through a big bug phase," she supplied, glancing up to gauge his reaction. He was still smiling, so she continued. "He used to go outside very early on Saturday mornings and go bug hunting. If he found something particularly interesting, he'd bring it inside and leave it on the pillow next to me."

"What a lovely wake up call," David mused, and she laughed in agreement. Another beat passed before David prompted, "Tell me when you knew that he was mine."

"The moment I got back from Seattle and remembered the antibiotics," she answered. "I know, it sounds crazy, but I knew then. And a few weeks later, I took the pregnancy test, and I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt. But I kept telling myself that I couldn't know for sure. So…so when he was born, he had this head full of thick black hair—"

"I know," David gave a small smile. "I have pictures."

"You do," she returned softly. She gave a nervous smile, "I hoped you would understand why I gave them to you. I wanted you to have something…to have some kind of image to attach to all the stories I wanted to tell you."

He nodded in understanding.

"The moment they placed him in my arms, I knew I couldn't lie to myself anymore," she continued. "And I just…I loved him, so completely, because of it. I love my daughters; I love all of my children, but I'd been so afraid for Christopher, before he was born, and after—after, I was so relieved, it just….I don't know how to describe it."

She stopped walking, and David stopped as well, turning to look at her.

"That was when I knew I loved you, too," she admitted, her green eyes finding his brown ones in the waning light. Then her lips quirked into a wry smile, "Or at least that was the first time that I acknowledged it."

He grinned, knowing that twenty years ago, admitting something like that would have been tantamount to insanity. He leaned forward to kiss her smiling mouth, and she eagerly rose to the balls of her feet, meeting him halfway.

"What else do you want to know?" She asked softly, once their lips parted.

"Little doses, bella," he replied. "That's enough for now."

She simply nodded, understanding that the sadness of missing all of these moments with their son would still be something he had to deal with every time she gave him a new piece of their untold common history. So she decided to distract him.

With a slight bump against his side, she moved away from him, casting a teasing glance over her shoulder, playfully swishing the hem of her dress around her thighs. He grinned, understanding her challenge as he advanced and she retreated, turning to face him, leaning forward so that he could see down the front of her dress, taunting him again. He moved again and she found herself against a tree, grinning madly at the man before her, whose hands rested easily on her hips as his mouth returned to her neck.

She sighed happily, turning her face to the sky. Through the trees, she could see the navy hue of the night sky appearing, and the burning stars that always shined so much brighter in the country.

Oh, for a thousand nights just like this.


	32. Feint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emily's lines of dialogue in the first section are not my own, they belong to Erica Messer, who wrote the episode referenced in this section (7.23 Hit/Run). Also, the last interaction between Rossi and Strauss at the end of the first section is taken from my other short story "Mulligan", the one which made me write this story in turn.

_ "Carry the battle to them. Don't let them bring it to you. Put them on the defensive and don't ever apologize for anything." _

_ ~Harry S. Truman. _

* * *

**May 2012. Washington, D.C.**

Even after SSA Emily Prentiss' miraculous return from the dead, John Curtis still kept tabs on the BAU, from time to time.

Sometimes, on days like today, it was just too easy—he had heard about the standoff at the Colonial Liberty Bank, and he'd felt compelled to watch the team in action. He'd driven back into the District, slipped on a baseball cap and some shades, placed his camera around his neck and joined the group of reporters and cameramen and newspaper photographers at the edge of the security barricade. He didn't look at all out-of-place, snapping photos of the agents who had become as recognizable as celebrities to him, after all the months of research he'd conducted.

There was David Rossi, whom he'd known long before (if the Bureau was truly fair-minded, they would have shipped Rossi off to Timbuktu after Ruby Ridge, they should have disgraced him the way they disgraced John), and Aaron Hotchner, another fallen angel of the best and brightest who still somehow managed to lead one of the most elite units in the Bureau, both quietly talking and conferring back and forth under the pop-up tent that served as negotiation headquarters.

There was Jennifer Jareau, entering the mobile command center, which he knew held Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia and several other members of the team (god, imagine the work he could do, if they would let him in that van). Agent Jareau was a strange creature—she'd been scooped up by the Department of Defense, given a more powerful position, and yet she'd fought like hell to return to the BAU. She placed friendship over success and team loyalty over personal advancement, which made her a rare breed indeed.

A few seconds after Jareau entered the bus, two more agents exited—the lanky and unmistakable forms of Spencer Reid and Emily Prentiss, the resident genius and the walking dead, respectively. John bit back a snide smile at the illustrious Dr. Reid, over whom the Bureau always wet their pants, acting as if he were some rare and dazzling intellect—what a joke! Sure, the young man had the gift of eidetic memory, and his borderline-autistic brilliance ensured that he knew everything about anything, but he didn't have the skills to go with it. He had the knowledge, but he couldn't translate  _comprehension_  into  _application_. John understood biochemicals and he could engineer them; he understood computer technology, and he could hack into some of the most sophisticated systems that the government had to offer. Could their precious doctor do that?

And then there was Agent Prentiss. Emily Prentiss, secret agent and international spy extraordinaire, the origin of John Curtis' angst, the match that had lit this obsessive and indignant fire which burned within him like the righteous and continuous fervor of a religious zealot.

Using his camera lens to get a closer look, he studied the raven-haired woman. She was acting oddly, keeping her shoulder slightly turned away from her companion, as if she were shielding herself from his scrutiny.

As if she were keeping a secret.

He frowned slightly, lowering his camera as he considered the ramifications of such a realization.

He didn't like not knowing the reason behind her sudden closedness. He  _needed_  to know.

His gaze was distracted by a blonde head bobbing through the throng of dark navy Kevlar vests and close-shaved men, easily moving around the cars and people with an efficiently crisp pace that said  _I'm somebody, I have somewhere to be_.

Erin Strauss. It had to have been years since she was last in the field, and probably the first time she'd been asked to head off a major tactical situation like this, but she'd always had a sense of bravado that made her seem calm and collected, no matter how far out of her element she might be. He used to admire her for it. Now it just filled him with a dark desire to rip away her sense of security and cool assurance, the same way she'd ripped away his bright and shining future with the FBI. He wanted to prove her lacking in the way that she'd found him inadequate; he wanted to disgrace her in the way that she had dismissed him, exiling him to Kansas ( _Kansas_ , for Christ's sake).

The oblivious blonde wasn't the only person who would be disgraced and disproven—no, no, there was a list of people who would ultimately taste the bitter reality of what it truly meant to turn away from John Curtis—but at the moment, she was definitely a priority.

Jareau, Reid, and Prentiss left the scene, and later, the two women returned. Again, John noticed that the dark-haired woman seemed withdrawn, distant, perhaps even more so than she had earlier that morning.

He'd spent far too much time on the outside looking in. He turned away, slipping through the crowd, back towards his car, where his gear and credentials were. When he was a few blocks away, he heard the explosion, and suddenly, he began to smile.

_Looks like Erin's already messed up again. Wonder who she'll blame for this one?_

* * *

Amidst the smoke and the confusion, it was easy for John to slip through the barricades, with his official windbreaker and a quick flash of his credentials. He quietly stood behind several burly officers, listening to Agent Hotchner and Chief Strauss brief the responders (Aaron and Erin, how quaint and fitting, how perfectly matched, his dark to her light, their tones both so serious and authoritative, so easily in-synch as they finished each other's sentences, nodding in agreement with one another).

Of course, he wasn't here to help the wounded or carry the fallen. He was much more interested in the little knot of people at the center of this explosive drama. He shadowed Agent Prentiss, who was so engrossed in the situation that she never noticed him. He remembered the transcripts that he'd read from her questioning during the oversight hearing, after the Ian Doyle debacle (yet another firestorm that the miraculous Erin Strauss had survived, relatively unscathed). She'd sounded lovely and fervent and fierce, in so many ways reminding him of how Alex Blake used to be, before the final days in New York, before Erin Strauss had beaten them, before Alex had somehow become just another one of Erin's little lapdogs ( _t_ _he most capable and logical choice_ _—you didn't get praise like that unless you were doing some serious ass-kissing)._

He watched the younger woman, listening in on as many interactions as he could, carefully gathering bits of information to support his theory.

She was standing just outside the tactical van now, so deep in conversation on her cellphone that she seemed completely unaware of the people moving around her, much less the man standing only a feet away, quietly listening to her.

"Yes, you should fix that." Her tone was laced with sarcasm. Obviously, she knew the other person well. A beat passed as she listened to the response. Whatever was said certainly surprised her, because she took a deep breath and shook her head, her tone now teetering between frustration and amusement as she gave a slightly incredulous laugh, "You have always had bad timing."

There was another pause as she listened to the reply, and though she rolled her eyes, there was a moment in which she checked herself, as if perhaps she really had begun to consider whatever her companion was suggesting. Clearing her throat, she ended the phone call with a quick, "Yeah, I will."

Although he wasn't entirely certain of the nature of the request, John Curtis could tell by her reaction that she'd just received a proposition of some sort. She was a rather attractive woman, but given the nature of her conversation, he was certain that the offer was something a little more professional.

Emily Prentiss was going to leave the BAU again.

John Curtis knew this, knew it with every fiber of his being. How he knew such a thing was beyond comprehension, but he simply felt it, with the kind of heavy-weighted certainty that went further than a simple gut feeling. She'd blown the other person off, but she'd hesitated.

She had  _hesitated_.

That millisecond of silence spoke volumes.

This time, he wouldn't be blindsided by the short list of replacements. Erin Strauss still had the chance to redeem herself, the chance to realize her mistake and put forth his name as the only truly suitable candidate for Prentiss' coveted spot in the BAU.

Emily Prentiss had fulfilled her use—he'd found out her secret, which had given him a temporary edge over the others. Now it was on to bigger things. His attention shifted to the other team members—to the two who would ultimately decide upon the replacement, the wonder twins Aaron and Erin.

He stood front and center as Agent Hotchner briefed them on the latest developments, and the younger man didn't recognize him. But in Hotchner's defense, he hadn't personally worked with John, and therefore he received a free pass on not immediately remembering his face (after all, they were in a different setting, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the situation, so it was understandable).

However, that did not excuse Erin Strauss. Several minutes later, he spotted her delicately picking her way through the rubble, her brow furrowed in concentration as she sidestepped another twisted piece of metallic debris, and John actually reached out, offering his hand for support, and she took it, grasping his fingers as she balanced unsteadily on one high-heeled boot to move around the metal.

"Thank you," she said softly and quickly, almost without thinking. She released her grip and offered a perfunctory smile of gratitude, so polite and politically-correct as always.

Her eyes ( _were they grey, green, or blue?_ ) locked onto his for the briefest of flashes before she continued on her journey, so completely blind to the truth that was literally staring her in the face and holding her hand, quietly waiting to be recognized.

She'd forgotten him, had swept him under a rug with the rest of her problems from the Amerithrax case, had killed his career and quietly washed the blood off her hands without the slightest hint of remorse.

Erin Strauss had sealed her fate, and the fate of the entire BAU team as well. John had tried to be benevolent, tried to offer her one last chance at redemption, but she was too far in denial over her past transgressions to even see the olive branch, much less accept it.

Again, John Curtis' mission changed—now his focus was to gather as much intel as possible on the team members who would remain after Agent Prentiss' imminent flight. Though he doubted that he'd be able to glean much from the hurried and strained reactions occurring in this smoky situation, he still might as well use the up-close-and-personal access wisely, since there might not be many more excuses to walk alongside them in the near future. He continued to watch Emily Prentiss draw away from her colleagues, watched the others interact with each other, with strangers, with press, with hostages, all the little moments collecting like breadcrumbs to lead him to a better understanding of how they thought and operated, as individuals and as a collective.

Over an hour later, his eye caught a movement across the debris-riddled asphalt, and again, it was Erin Strauss, walking back to her vehicle, her bulletproof vest gone but her mental armor still firmly in-place as her face slipped into an unreadable mask. David Rossi was walking beside her, and suddenly, her hand reached out (so quickly, so furtively that John thought at first that he'd imagined it) and took Rossi's, giving it a quick squeeze. That action brought a slightly-awestruck smile to the dark-haired man's face, and they continued walking. Then he stopped, saying something into his comm set, and she turned to him with worried eyes.

John wasn't close enough to hear their exchange, but he could read the body language well enough to realize that Rossi was being called out into the field and Strauss was concerned for his safety. Rossi moved away again, and Strauss turned back to him, calling out again. She said something else, her expression soft and her eyes shining, and he replied with some kind of reassurance, because his face softened as well, and his hand went over his heart in an almost subconscious gesture.

His hand. Over his heart.

Her hand. Reaching for his.

John Curtis had just found his first secret weapon to use in his future assault on the BAU.

_Oh, Erin Strauss. You naughty girl._

* * *

**May 2013. Rural Virginia.**

The alarm beeped, eliciting a groan from Erin, who rolled over, burrowing back under the covers as she mumbled, "Why is it already morning?"

David turned off the alarm, merely grinning as he turned back to her, diving under the comforter to find the warm and sleepy skin that always seemed like a golden peach in the pale morning light. He kissed the curve of her shoulder blade.

"We don't have time for that this morning," she flatly informed him. Though she loved the fact that he still wanted more of her, after all the times he'd had her last night, Erin Strauss was not nor would ever be a morning person, and she coveted her sleep like a dragon guards its gold.

"We might," he corrected.

"We're gonna be late," she countered.

She could feel him grinning against her skin. "That all depends on how long it takes for me to make you scream my name."

"David—"

"That doesn't count, bella. I'm looking for a very specific inflection here."

She gave a sleepy amused smile, "I thought you weren't a morning person."

"I'm not." He admitted, his arm snaking around her waist and pulling her closer so that she could feel his erection pressing against her bottom. "But I am very much a morning sex person."

Despite the fact that the mere contact of his body with hers was enough to start that familiar heat deep within, her tone still held a warning, "If you make me late for work—"

"Calmati, bella. I set the alarm earlier than usual."

It was actually touching, knowing that he'd planned on starting his day by making love to her. Throughout the night, they'd awakened each other with soft kisses and sleepy caresses that sometimes turned into some semi-conscious sex, and she had found something comforting in the simple knowledge that they sought each other, even when they weren't cognizant. She hadn't had that kind of connection in a very long time, and she'd forgotten how much she'd missed it. Of course, that didn't stop Erin from raising a dubious eyebrow, "Rather presumptuous, aren't you, Mr. Rossi?"

"A well-established fact," he agreed, his hand slipping further down, to the thighs still satiny and warm with sleep, which she easily shifted for him, allowing him better access. She gave a small happy hum as he began waking her body with the simple strokes of his fingers, arching into him and grinding against his hardness as her own hand reached back to wander whatever planes of his body that she could reach.

Her other hand reached up and removed the pillow from under her head, using it as a prop for her left knee. Relishing the solid warmth of his chest against her shoulder blades, her fingers found themselves buried in his salt-and-pepper locks once his mouth began retasting and rediscovering her neck and the curve of her shoulder. She was turning her head, her mouth seeking out his own, a silent call which he gladly answered.

"I suppose this is a better wake-up call than coffee," she mused dryly.

"Do you want me to stop and go make you some coffee?" He asked, not even half-seriously, because that obviously wasn't going to happen.

"I can have coffee at the office."

"You can have this at the office, too," he gave a suggestive push of his hips, and she pretended to be shocked by his insinuations.

"David!"

"That filing credenza of yours is the perfect height," he pointed out, and she couldn't help but give a low chuckle.

"You've put some thought into this, haven't you?" The knowing amusement in her tone answered her own question (she'd never be so brazen as to actually have sex in her office, but this was good ammunition, a good way to tease him whenever he stopped by).

He simply kissed her again. Her left hand was on his hip, pulling him closer, letting him know that she was ready, and he entered her, filling with a certain delight at the feeling of her muscles contracting around him (he loved how easily he could arouse her, how receptive she was, how deliciously responsive her finely-tuned body was for him, loved that she shared his ardor and his passion, and could return it with a flame of equal heat and force, loved how perfectly matched they were and had always been, in so many ways).

She'd turned her face away again, pressing into the mattress as she softly murmured his name like some kind of arcane mantra. Though she seemed oblivious, he knew that she was doing this on purpose, because that was what he wanted, because she knew what it would do to him, and he loved it—he loved that she did it and he loved that he knew her well enough to know her reasons for doing it.

That was the measure of a soulmate, he was quite certain.

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia.**

His soulmate took a deep, quiet breath as they boarded the elevator, shifting into the corner to provide more room for the other passengers. On the drive to work, she'd become increasingly quieter as they'd moved closer to the rooms full of ominous photos and unanswered questions, closer to the reality that they'd been able to escape for the past few hours.

He simply reached over and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, which she returned with equal force, keeping her eyes focused straight ahead, and David realized that Erin was actually fighting back tears. He followed her to her office, waiting until he'd fully closed the door before speaking.

"Five days left." That was all he said, all he needed to say.

"I know," she took another unsteady breath through her lips, touching the tip of her tongue to the corner of her mouth (an odd little tell that she'd always had, the one that she gave when she was holding back, when she was busy pushing her fear into some small box to file away).

After a beat, she looked at him, "Is it odd that I actually wish he'd communicate with us again, just so we could have some new clue to go on?"

"No," he assured her softly. She gave a slight nod.

"Dr. Reid thinks it might be some kind of distraction," she said, though her voice held no hope.

"I know," he replied simply. "He told us his theory."

Again, her eyes were on his face, filled with the wariest of hopes as she asked, "Do you agree?"

He knew what she wanted, but he couldn't give her that—not if he was going to be honest with her.

"It's plausible," he kept his voice neutral. "But there are too many unknown variables. We just don't know enough about this guy yet, Erin."

That wasn't the reassurance that she was looking for, but she was still grateful for his candor. She simply nodded, crossing her arms over her chest as she compartmentalized her emotions once more.

One of the greatest joys of finally being able to recognize his true connection with Erin Strauss was the fact that David could now do what he did in that exact moment—he moved across the room to her, taking her in his arms, holding that blonde head against his chest as he kissed her forehead. He could finally comfort her, could finally find solace in her, could finally experience the simple healing power of touch, even in an embrace as chaste as this.

Her arms uncrossed themselves, slipping around him, pulling him closer to her. He felt her chest shift against his own as she simply breathed. They were in a strange new territory, being able to heal and support one another, and though it seemed odd and unbalanced, it also filled them both with relief and comfort. Erin softly smiled at the realization that this was just another adjustment to make, another sign that they were truly becoming something more. After a few more seconds, she pulled away slightly, turning her face up to his.

"I've got work to do," she regretfully informed him before rising up on her toes and planting a quick kiss on his mouth. "And so do you."

"You really think you're gonna get away with a simple peck?" He chided, his hands easily moving down to cup her ass and pull her back in. She grinned and tilted her chin towards him, giving a small hum when his tongue found its way back into her mouth. With one last pinch and a wink over his shoulder, he exited her office, grinning at her as she shook her head in mock disapproval of his naughty ways.

Slowly turning back to her desk, Erin took a moment to survey the room—the walls adorned with the physical proof of her dedication to the Bureau and the good ol' American way, the heavy glass vases, the smiling faces of her children, the stacks of files, the unrelenting stream of work that would not allow her to be distracted.

Her mind suddenly flickered with the ghost of an idea. She moved back to the stack of action reports, which still needed to be filed.

Her own words echoed in her brain, the words she'd spoken to David just a week ago, when she first began to suspect that the Replicator was an insider.

_He knew both of us. Very well._ Someone who knew them, who had known them for years, who also knew the movements of her team, knew the cases like the back of his hand— _knew details that had never been released, details that were only published in the confidential reports_.

It had to be someone who saw the reports—either the reports filed by the team to her office, or the reports filed by her to the higher ups. It was a short list, and a dangerous conjecture, but Erin felt that familiar humming beneath her veins (the same thing she used to feel when connecting the dots in a paper trail, or upon finally finding that unlisted account in the Cayman Islands, or when the final detail in a mapping analysis clicked into place), and she knew that she was right, even if she couldn't prove it yet.

_Yet_.

Erin Strauss was not a chess player. It was too static for her, required too much patience and idle inaction. However, in her younger years, she had been an avid fencer—she'd loved the adrenaline humming through her veins, the breath before the lunge, the push to be quick on her feet and quicker with her mind.

She wasn't one to think twenty moves ahead and hope that her opponent took those moves. She wasn't one for deflection and distraction. She was a creature who pushed, who egged her opponent into moving and reacting  _right now_. She was one to feint, to prick her opposition's skin, to taunt and lunge and retreat and act and react, to make them move, to make them misstep, to force their hand and force them into making a mistake.

So she decided that it was time to throw out the bishops and knights and bring in the épées and sabres. Enough intellectualism—it was time to start drawing  _blood_.

With a sudden sense of determination, Erin sat at her desk, turning the chair around to face the computer. She pulled up the blank format and grabbed the stack of reports, quickly finding one that suited her needs—Phillip Connor, the cutter from Detroit.

She quickly filled in the basic details, using her usual, concise style that had made her reports a model for all others. She pursed her lips as she typed:

'Connor was an equal opportunity anger-retaliatory sadist.' ( _Just like you, whomever you are, you fucker._ )

Holding her breath, she added the next line, the little bait with which to catch her big fish:

'Connor cut an infinity symbol into his victim's wrist.'

It wasn't true, not in the least. Once the Replicator was caught, she would go back and amend that statement, just for future reference. For now, she would use it as the perfect trap—the team didn't know that she'd lied on the report, so if the Replicator was someone who followed the team, or someone who had access to the team's reports, and he replicated this crime, then the symbol would not appear; the people reading her reports didn't know that she'd lied, either, so if the symbol did appear, then it meant the UNSUB was on her mailing list.

She finished her report and quickly scanned it for any errors before sending it off. Then she sat back in her chair, biting her lip. It was a bold move, but one so cleverly calculated—the kind of thing that had gotten her this far in life—and she actually felt a surge of adrenaline. Finally, she was getting the chance to throw the ball back into this bastard's court, to shoot a volley across the bow.

_"Will you_ _walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly...come and get it, buddy. I'm gonna raze you to the ground._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Will you walk into my parlour?" is taken from the cautionary tale, "The Spider and the Fly" by Mary Howitt, which oddly enough was one of my favorite children's tales growing up.   
> Also, the two lines taken from Erin's action report on Phillip Connor are actually verbatim from the copy of the report that Hotch, Garcia, and Kevin read in 8.24 The Replicator. So those aren't my words either, but rather the work of some very wonderful person on the production team.  
> And Strauss' "tell" of touching her tongue to the corner or side of her mouth is not my invention—it's totally something Jayne Atkinson does whenever her character is frustrated, perplexed, frightened, or holding back what is likely a scathing retort. Go back and look for it. It's there.


	33. Mothers and Daughters

_"Probably there is nothing in human nature more resonant with charges than the flow of energy between two biologically alike bodies, one of which has lain in amniotic bliss inside the other, one of which has labored to give birth to the other. The materials are here for the deepest mutuality and the most painful estrangement."_

_~Adrienne Rich._

* * *

**May 2013. Washington, D.C.**

Since it was a national holiday, the National Museum for Women in the Arts was closed for the day, but Jordan Strauss actually preferred the quiet calm of the building, the solitary echo of her steps rising to the high vaulted ceiling, with its decorated and colored trays and the beautiful chandeliers (if you stood still long enough, you could see them swaying gently in the cool morning light, almost as if they were wallflowers at a ball, quietly waiting for the chance to dance). She'd spent the past week tucked away in her mother's house, under the constant and watchful eye of federal agents, and she was going absolutely stir-crazy. She loved her mother and her father, she loved her brother and her sister, but gods, there was something to be said for living alone.

They had a new exhibit opening in less than a month, and there was so much left to be done—so much that she'd been unable to do, because she'd been on voluntary house-arrest, because she'd chosen her family over all else, as she had always done, even when her presence couldn't actually fix anything.

Her father hadn't wanted her to come in, but by the time he had found out, she was already halfway to the office (she had an awful distaste for confrontation and avoided it at all costs—so, just as she had done when she'd come back to be with Chris, she'd simply waited until she was already gone before calling her dad to inform him of her plans).

Truth be told, it was her father who made her want to get away—he'd been acting weird and withdrawn and mopey ever since David had shown up on the doorstep yesterday afternoon (he'd said that it wasn't because of meeting Mom's boyfriend, but Jordan knew that it was a lie and it actually kind of annoyed her, how childish he was being). She couldn't spend another minute surrounded by the odd energy at her father's house, with Anna constantly chattering on and on about stupid high school drama and Christopher trying to make everyone laugh because he could sense the weirdness, too.

Now, Jordan was close enough to being an adult (what the hell did that mean, anyways—she had a sideways driver's license and could drink alcohol and vote and had a college degree and a car note and an apartment in the District, filled with knick-knacks and things that were all her own, which were all things that should make her an adult, but she still didn't  _feel_  like one), so she could actually understand the strange feelings bouncing back and forth between her parents. Her father had been dating other women for months now, and he was vaguely aware that her mother was dating again, too, but there was a difference between knowing it was possible and seeing it in living, breathing color.

Jordan Strauss had never been in love (ok, there was a time or two in college, when she had  _thought_  that she was in love, but looking back, those incidents probably weren't anything more than serious doses of endorphins and very misguided attempts to rip herself apart for the acceptance of another person, because like her mother, she was a bit of a masochist, apparently), so she couldn't imagine loving someone for three decades, much less being able to simply switch off all the feelings and memories connected to that person—which, technically, was the story of her parents. She knew, because she'd seen it in their eyes, that her parents still cared about one another on some level. She also knew that there were many aspects of their relationship that she didn't understand or know about (aspects she didn't need to know, aspects she didn't want to know), and somewhere in that tangled hidden mess lay the reason why Paul and Erin simply didn't work anymore.

If she were totally honest, she could admit that there had been times when she'd hoped that her parents would reunite (though she could also admit that her hope was a selfish thing, a part of her that longed for the simplicity and beautiful symmetry of her childhood, when everything seemed rosy and happy and loving and perfect and  _safe_  and  _right_ ). But that semblance of a prayer which had quietly echoed through her daughter-heart was completely obliterated the moment she met David Rossi. She'd been amazed to see her mother blushing whenever Anna had first revealed David's existence, and she'd felt the first glimmer of intuition, which was confirmed the instant she actually met the man and saw what his mere presence did to her mother.

Her mom had never looked at her father like that. Her face had never glowed like a warm golden flame whenever he teased her, her eyes had never danced when he spoke and her hand had never lightly traced his arm with the soft reverence of a devoted lover, and she never had smiled at Paul Strauss with the same gentle bright-cheeked adoration that she held for this man who was supposedly "just a friend" a few weeks ago.

Maybe her parents had been that way in the beginning, when they were still in college, before marriage and children and thirty-plus years wearing on them. Maybe they had never been that way; maybe each love was completely different. Jordan didn't think that she really wanted to know. Regardless of what had or never had been between her parents, Jordan was glad that her mother had found some strange new youthfulness and happiness in David Rossi—there had been so much stress and darkness over the past two years, and it was a welcome change to see her mother smiling again (sure, she smiled at her children, but that was a different kind of joy).

Jordan's opinion was further improved by the fact that David returned her mother's affections, and that he had a weird sense of humor which fit in quite nicely with the rest of the Strauss clan, and that he seemed to understand the stress of her mother's job better than anyone else. Most importantly, he made Erin happy, and really, that was all he needed to win Jordan's approval.

The redhead gave a slight grin as she thought about how they'd acted like two teenagers yesterday afternoon, with their obvious lie about lunch reservations. Sadly, due to her mother's alcoholism, it hadn't been the first time that Jordan had felt like the parent in the situation, but this was the first time that it was actually amusing.

 _Speak of the devil_. Her phone buzzed in her back pocket, and she instinctively knew who was calling before she even saw the caller ID.

"Good morning, Mother," she forced a nonchalant tone into her voice.

"Have you lost your damn mind?" Apparently there would be no moment of peace before the storm.

Jordan pretended to be shocked, "Mother, language—"

"Jordan Elaine," her mother's tone was filled with exasperation. Still, she softened (only slightly) as she asked, "Why didn't you stay?"

"Because, Erin Elaine," she liked using her mother's name like that, liked reminding her how much they shared (personalities and names and history and the strength of Erin's mother, the original Elaine). "I can't hide away forever and I do have a job and I am an adult, capable of making my own decisions. This guy isn't after me; I'm totally safe."

"No one is ever totally safe," Erin corrected gently, and there was a hint of sorrow in her voice at that pronouncement.

"Who told you?" Jordan switched gears.

"Anna texted me."

"Of course she did." She was probably jealous because the house-arrest had kept her from some stupid pool party.

"She was worried."

"She didn't have to transfer that worry to you," Jordan tried to keep the growl from her voice. "You've got enough on your plate as it is."

There was a beat of silence. With a heavy sigh of frustration and regret (frustration at the situation, at her blabber-mouth little sister, regret at the thought of making her mother worry, of being so seemingly cavalier about everything), Jordan offered a compromise, "I'm just gonna be here for a few hours—four at the most. I'm gonna catalogue the new pieces that have come in since last week, and then I'll head back to Dad's, OK? I just needed to slip away for awhile."

"That bad, huh?" Erin's tone changed as well, tinged with sudden understanding.

"Yes and no," her daughter answered diplomatically.

Erin gave a small, knowing hum before slipping back into Stern Mother Mode. "Four hours. Then you're back in the nest."

"Yes, Mama Bird."

"I love you."

"Love you, too, Mom."

"You don't sound very convincing."

"Really, Mother?" Jordan rolled her eyes as she heard her mother laugh in response.

"Four hours—"

"Mein Gott in Himmel, Mother, I've already said—"

"Yes, but I know how you get. You turn on your little Pandora thingy—"

"Ohmigod, Erin, Pandora isn't an actual device—"

"And then you get all absorbed in your work and you lose track of time, and you—"

"I'll set an alarm on my phone, mkay?"

"Good." Erin sounded smug, as if she'd somehow won an argument that didn't actually happen.

Of course, her daughter was never one to concede without throwing in a few more barbs of feigned anger (though Erin could hear the amusement dancing at the edges of her voice), "Don't you have better things to do than harass innocent civilians who are trying to be contributing members of society? Like play shoot-em-up cops and robbers with a bunch of psycho-killers?"

"Glad to see that you hold my job in such high regard," Erin's tone was wry and Jordan knew that she was smiling.

"I love you, Mother, I really do. I'm hanging up now."

Erin didn't resist the chance to aggravate her firstborn just a bit further by reminding her, "Four hours—"

"Goodbye."

With a sound that was something between a laugh and a huff of frustration, Jordan shook her head and tucked her cell into the back pocket of her jeans.

 _Mothers and daughters_. No matter how old you get, you always the play the role assigned to you, and the role never really changes, because (like siblings) mothers had the uncanny knack for turning you into a child all over again.

* * *

**April 1982. Washington, D.C.**

Elaine Ledell MacLauchlan Breyer had one of those timeless faces, the kind that never truly aged, as if she were carved from some rare form of breathing marble. She had the deep Scottish blue eyes and the light Scandinavian blonde hair, a testament to the great American melting pot (although nowadays her hair color was thanks to her stylist, not her heritage), and a presence that could fill an entire room, though her frame was relatively thin and small.

To her eldest daughter, she seemed like the strongest person alive, like some human bastion against time and chance and change—even now, as she sat on the sofa, lightly stroking her daughter's blonde head as it rested in her lap in a tender and loving moment, the set of her shoulders still showed that she was ready to jump into battle at the slightest provocation.

This was how Erin Breyer had always experienced life with her mother—equal parts love and fear, feeling safe and yet holding a strange apprehensive reverence for the thing which protected her. Her boyfriend had simply summed her mother up as "a truly amazing piece of work."

 _Boyfriend_. He wouldn't be that much longer. He was acting strange, suddenly shy and skittish, as if they hadn't known each other for three years now. She knew what that meant. She actually kind of hoped that she was wrong.

As if she could read her daughter's mind, Elaine quietly asked, "How's Paul?"

"He's good," Erin replied, closing her eyes and simply relishing the feel of her mother's fingers running through her hair. She'd come home for spring break, battered and bruised from her grueling final semester, frazzled nerves and a nearly-shot psyche, and she was enjoying the quiet comfort that only a mother could provide (it was even more deeply appreciated because Elaine generally wasn't an affectionate person, so this moment was to be absorbed and clutched to her childish heart like a shiny treasure, a golden ticket to knowing her mother truly loved her).

"He'll be there for your graduation." That was a statement, not a question.

Erin hummed in agreement.

"Use words, Erin Elaine." Her tone was soft, but the reprimand was still there ( _ladies speak clearly, concisely, and properly_ ).

"Yes. He will be there."

"Good." Erin wasn't sure if that was approval for his presence or for her use of words. She'd learned a long time ago not to try and decipher the meaning behind her mother's words, because Elaine was an elusive twisting Sphinx of a woman with hidden motives and strange reasoning, beyond all comprehension.

There was another moment of silence, in which Erin silently prayed that this particular line of questioning was over, though she knew that it wasn't. Elaine had a strange conversational cadence, an odd sense of timing whenever she was on the hunt for some certain reaction or some revelation of truth. Really, it was beautiful and interesting to watch, if you weren't the object of her scrutiny.

"Martha Lorin said she saw him at Dresden's."

Ah, there it was. Dresden's was a jewelry store. More importantly, it was where almost everyone in their social circle went for engagement rings.

"Oh?" Erin wasn't sure what else to say, though this only confirmed her suspicion regarding her boyfriend's strange actions over the past few weeks. Paul had been out of college for two years now, and she was graduating in a little over a month, so it seemed like a natural time to transition their relationship into something more solid and grown-up as well.

"Has he said anything to you?" Elaine gently pressed.

"Not yet. But I figured this was coming."

"Doesn't that make you happy?" There seemed to be a hint of accusation in her mother's tone.

"Paul is a good man," Erin admitted quietly. She didn't really answer her mother's question, but then again, her mother didn't really want hear her answer. She knew that she should be giddy with excitement, but instead she felt a sickening sense of dread ( _I'm not ready for this, how can I be married when I still don't know who I am or what I want or where I'm going in life?_ ). She also knew that if (when) he asked, she'd say yes (despite the fear, despite the hesitancy), because he was a good man, and he loved her, and she wouldn't let her childish uncertainties ruin his happiness.

"A good man from a good family," her mother added. That was what was truly important to Elaine Breyer—her daughter had found a suitable match, someone of equal social rank and standing, someone who would continue to provide for her firstborn in the manner to which she had been accustomed.

Elaine hadn't always been the best mother, she knew that. But she would still do her very best to ensure that her children were all well off. It was the least she could do, to make sure that her daughter would be taken care of, even after Elaine was gone. It was the only way she knew how to show her continued love (because she did love her children, despite her fumbling and failed attempts to convey the message, from time to time).

"He is," her daughter agreed, suddenly looking so much younger than her twenty-three years. She was still so naive, so tender and fragile and so unprepared for the long and heavy battle of life. Paul Strauss would be good for Erin—he was a strong man, a protector type who would shelter her from the rougher storms of life, who would guide her and help her become a full-fledged adult, who would keep her in-line and perhaps save her from her own headstrong ways (Jameson had coddled Erin too much in childhood, had encouraged her stubborn nature as if it were a virtue, had allowed her to stay so idealistically naive and yet so unbelievably stalwart, which in many ways held her back, damaging Erin's ability to survive in the strange social order that they inhabited, because she'd never learned to mince her words or hold her tongue or be the demure and shining socialite that she was expected to be).

"I think he's waiting until after my graduation to propose," Erin broke the thoughtful silence again.

"That's very considerate," Elaine replied noncommittally. While she wanted someone to tame her daughter, she also feared somehow breaking Erin's spirit—she prayed to God above that Erin wouldn't live her mother's life, stuck in a house full of children, with hungry ambitions and dreams of her own but no recourse to exercise them. Jameson had always pushed Erin to be the very best and brightest, and his constant pressure had paid off, because their eldest daughter certainly was an overachiever of the highest standard. It would be a shame to see all that effort wasted on a life spent in knitting circles.

It was a strange land, this hollowed out place of wanting and withdrawing that Elaine Breyer found herself in. She wanted Erin to have more freedom, more opportunity, but not too much, not so much as to ruin her abilities to be a good wife and a good mother and all the other things that she was expected to become. She realized that this was a different era, a world slightly widened, a view slightly shifted—this was the world of her children, the land that Erin must learn to live in and navigate, one that Elaine didn't truly understand, which meant she had no wisdom to impart to her eldest daughter on how to survive and conquer it. The task was further complicated by the fact that Erin was her father's child, a thing of the wind, a spirit of the earth, with a booming laugh and quick-turn tumbling emotions and wide-eyed dreams and unyielding faith in humanity—all these things that Elaine couldn't quite grasp or understand or control, which in turn meant that Elaine had never really figured out how to connect with her daughter. It was hard, being a mother to a child whom she wasn't sure  _how_  to mother. When Erin was younger, Elaine had chalked up the awkwardness as simply the uncertainty that always comes from the first child (parenting is a learned thing, a constant lesson in so many subjects, changing and muting on a daily basis, and the first child always bears the brunt of that learning curve), but deep down, she knew that it was more than that.

Peter was like that sometimes. Hard to understand, hard to connect. Carole never had been—she'd always been their good child, their quiet and respectful middle one, the one who didn't demand attention or push too hard against the sides of family life. And sweet Drew, he was the family jester, the one who always smiled and fished for praise and adoration with an endearing determination.

But Peter was, like Erin, more of his father's child as well.

"Is Peter seeing anyone?"

The question was asked so casually, too casually, and Erin felt her gut clench in response. Mother knew. How did she know?

"I…I don't think so." Erin mentally kicked herself for how slowly she pronounced the words, how easily she proved that she was obviously lying—her mother was a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out the truth.

That was what this sweet little moment was about. Elaine Breyer was nothing if not a cool read of human behavior, and she seemed to always know the quickest way to gain someone's confidence and trust—even her own children, which was why she'd let Erin rest in her lap, why she'd plied away her nervousness with soft words and gentle caresses, had distracted her with talk of Paul and impending nuptials, lulling her into a state where she'd be less on-edge and more likely to slip up.

This had never been about Paul or his visit to Dresden's or the unspoken question ( _will you marry him if he asks?_ ). This had been about Peter and the secret that he'd told Erin at Christmas.

"He hasn't mentioned anyone?" Elaine's tone was still nonchalant, still so easy-breezy conversational, the same voice she used when talking to strangers at political parties, neutral and unassuming, but Erin could feel the muscles in her mother's leg tightening underneath her cheek, could feel the lioness emerging to single out the weak and ill-fated antelope.

 _Anyone_. Her mother was using a gender-neutral word. Elaine Breyer never said anything that she didn't mean, and she was never one for frivolous usage of the English language. She knew. She didn't want to know, but she knew.

"We don't talk that often, Mama," her daughter answered dismissively.

"You two talk to each other more than you talk to me." There was a hidden accusation in that statement, a sense of betrayal and slight disapproval. Erin bit back the urge to retort,  _That's because we trust each other more than we trust you_.

Erin and Peter were, according to their grandmother, "thick as thieves and just as daring". Their mutual affection and sense of camaraderie stemmed from the fact that as the two eldest, they'd been held to higher standards in childhood, had practically raised their two younger siblings as their father disappeared into the whirlwind of becoming an appellate judge and their mother spent days at a time locked away from her children with her migraines and illnesses, had learned to protect one another against the rest of the world and the strain of being forced into adulthood long before their childhood was over.

Now their mother was trying to pull them apart, trying to steal away Peter's secret, like a greedy gull trying to crack open a clam.

"I was hoping that he would have found a nice girl by now," Elaine said, an edge of wistfulness in her voice (which Erin knew was feigned, a tacky ploy to garner her daughter's sympathy). She pressed further, "I always worry about him, you know."

With a light sigh, Erin moved to sit up, but her mother's hand on her neck (just firm enough to push her back down, just tight enough to suggest possible violence) kept her in-place. Erin felt the first ripple of fear, a survival instinct from her childhood which whispered urgently in her head ( _just do what Mother says, give her what she wants and she'll leave us alone, don't make her angry, don't make Mother angry, don't make her hurt us_ ).

"Are you sure he hasn't mentioned anyone?" Elaine Breyer's tone was cooler, more assured. Her fingers still rested innocently on the smooth curve of her daughter's neck, where she could feel the pulse thrumming underneath them.

"Mama, I don't know what you want from me." The panic was just beneath the surface of Erin's voice, and Elaine knew that it was a lie (her daughter only called her  _Mama_  when she was trying to appeal to her, trying to avoid answering some unpleasant truth, when she was afraid of Elaine's response to the answer).

"Erin Elaine, I have asked you the same question  _twice_ , and I have yet to receive an answer. That is what I want from you—a simple answer."

Oh, if only the answer were that simple.

"Are the words truly that difficult to formulate?" Her mother prompted again. Now the disdain and aggravation were in plain sight.

"No. He has not mentioned anyone." Erin felt her own anger building. She was slowly reminding herself that she wasn't a cowering child anymore, and her need to protect her brother was stronger than her fear of their mother.

Elaine took a moment to study the face lying in her lap—the classical profile that could be so beautiful, if it weren't currently set in such an expression of barely-masked defiance, the nose and chin so perfectly matched to her own, the grey-green eyes of her husband, which were focused on the other side of the room, the thin lips set in firm stubborn line (Erin had always set her mouth like that when she was angry, even as a toddler, a sure sign that she was holding back a particularly scathing remark).

Erin was not going to answer the question that Elaine couldn't bring herself to ask ( _does Peter like boys?_ ), and part of Elaine was relieved, because she really didn't want to know (she did but she didn't, because if she didn't know, then she could pretend that it wasn't there, she could continue to ignore the things which she'd known for years now, the deep mother-intuition that had told her such things were true despite her refusal to acknowledge them).

But there was another emotion that overpowered the relief, and it was something between jealousy and anger—Elaine could never understand why her children couldn't love her and adore her in the same way they loved and adored one another, and it angered her to know that Erin was lying to her,  _defying_  her, choosing Peter over  _her own mother_.

She loved her daughter, but she didn't particularly  _like_  her. Erin had always been a bit of a thorn in her side—Jameson adored her, was more affectionate towards her than to his own wife (she knew it was silly and sick, being jealous of her daughter in such a way), had always pressed Erin to take leaps and opportunities that he would have never allowed his wife to take ( _It's a new world, and Erin's going to be the one who conquers it_ , he always said with pride, as if that explained everything, as if Erin possessed some magical power that his wife did not, as if she were somehow smarter and better), and when Erin grew older, she stole Peter away as well, becoming his best friend. Somehow Carole hadn't fallen under her elder sister's spell, but God Almighty, there were times when Andrew might as well have been Erin's child, the way she doted on him, the way he looked to her with those big green eyes full of trust.

Elaine had always wanted more from life, had always felt that she needed  _something more_ , and her anger and envy and panic were further intensified by the realization that what did belong to her was being stolen away by a younger, brighter version of herself. Erin was already going to be and do and have more than Elaine—why must she take the things that belonged to her mother as well? Why couldn't her hungry wanting be satisfied with all the things her mother couldn't have, instead of devouring the few things that were Elaine's?

Truth be told, Elaine had always felt this strange dislike for her eldest child, and for the longest time, she'd felt guilty and ashamed of such feelings. But now, as she stared down at the silent and uncooperative face resting in her lap, she knew that her emotions had been justified.

Petulant, demanding child. Completely ignorant of her own selfish nature, because her father had taught her that it was her  _right_  to reach for more. This was Jameson's creature, through and through. She could never get it to bend to her will (and God knows, she had tried).

With an abrupt and rough jerk of her knee, she crossed her legs, effectively ejecting Erin from her lap. Her daughter sat up, though her body still slightly leaned towards her mother (still seeking out the motherly comfort that had been so sweetly offered before, because her Pavlovian response was still to pursue her mother's affection, despite a history proving the opposite).

Elaine crossed her arms over her chest and looked away, her voice filled with bitter ice, "Honestly, Erin, I don't know why you can never just answer a simple question without turning it into an entire dramatic production. That was an easy enough answer, was it not?"

She'd stopped calling her by her middle name, had severed their mutual connection, an action that did not go unnoticed by her daughter, who was highly-attuned to her ways and nuances.

Erin ducked her head, looking down at the carpet and silently chiding herself for allowing her mother to affect her so deeply, even after all these years of learning and relearning that her mother was a fickle and uncertain woman.

Still, reopening that old scar was worth it, if it meant that Peter was safe. She'd listened to her instinct when her mind had screamed to not tell Elaine anything, and she knew that it was the right choice. Besides, Elaine Breyer didn't really want to know the truth. Erin was just giving her what she wanted (plausible deniability), and yet she was being punished for doing just that.

From her hiding place at the top of the stairs, Carole Ann Breyer watched this strange dialogue between her mother and her older sister, her quiet eyes taking in every movement, every unspoken word written in the air by the shift in body language and the strange pulsing energy that she could feel, even from her perch. Mother didn't hold her like that, didn't talk quietly to her while soothing her head with gentle fingers—why did Erin throw that away by being stupid and angering Mother? Why didn't she just answer the questions, and take their mother's love? Why would she waste such a precious golden chance?

Erin did that a lot—making Mother angry, almost without trying. When Erin had moved away to college almost five years ago, Carole had thought that things would get better, but sadly, they hadn't changed enough. Though Mother was always angrier when Erin came to visit, or when she called to talk to Father, or when she sent letters (sometimes she sent little cards to Andrew, too, with funny cartoon drawings of her professors—those were the ones that made Mother the angriest).

Surely Erin knew that she only upset Elaine with these actions, which meant she was doing it  _on purpose_. That filled Carole with a deep anger—even when Erin wasn't here, she had to make sure she was the center of attention, had to be stirring up trouble and ruining any chance for a peaceful home.

Carole was smart enough to realize that their conversation was about something deeper than whether or not Peter was dating, though she wasn't sure what that something deeper was. But that wasn't the point. The point was that Mother loved Erin (everyone loved Erin, Erin above all others was the center of love in this house) and Erin spurned her, choosing instead to goad her anger and hurt her feelings. The next week would be absolute hell as Elaine found ways to terrorize the rest of the household with her petty slights and outrages (Carole was also old enough to realize that her mother didn't deal with anger in a healthy way), and it was all Erin's fault.

The three women sat in the quiet house, each lost in her own thoughts, the angers and resentments and wants and needs and ghosts of things-not-yet-passed and the shades of things-never-to-be-spoken-or-resolved drifting through the sun-soaked hallways with the lazy assurance that came from knowing they would haunt these walls for as long as these inhabitants lived, and perhaps even a time longer, seeping into the next generation with the subtle quietness and deep weight of history repeating.

* * *

_ "So fathers, be good to your daughters, for daughters will love like you do. Girls become lovers, who turn into mothers, so mothers, be good to your daughters, too." _

_ ~John Mayer, 'Daughters'. _


	34. Some Unholy War

_ "In a battle, all you need to make you fight is a little hot blood and the knowledge that it's more dangerous to lose than to win." _

_ ~George Bernard Shaw. _

* * *

**May 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

"Anger-excitation with a non-preferential victimology and an accelerating timeframe," Alex pronounced as she scanned the reports on their latest consult case. Hotch was standing beside her, but she didn't even bother to look up for his confirmation. She gave a slight frown as she continued, "They need to make this guy a priority—he's escalating, and anger-excitation rapists are the most likely to become serial killers, due to their sadistic tendencies."

"Agreed," Aaron gave a curt nod, taking the folder that Blake handed back to him and giving it one last cursory glance. "I'm going to give them a call this morning and let them know what to look for."

"I can type up a bullet-point profile to send along with it," she offered with a small smile, one tinged with the slightest hint of sympathy (he looked so drawn and pale, and she knew that it was because he was staying up at night, keeping vigil over his son and praying that history wouldn't repeat itself and he wouldn't be responsible for the loss of yet another person whom he loved).

"I would appreciate that," he replied in his usual tone. She knew that she hadn't yet made it into whatever inner sanctum of Hotch's confidence that allowed him to be anything less than her team leader, so she simply nodded and let him retain his detachment.

The glass door opened, catching both of their attention, and their heads snapped up simultaneously to see David Rossi breezing into the BAU. He gave them a slight smile and a nod of greeting as he continued up to his office, his dark eyes twinkling and his entire manner easy and relaxed.

Aaron and Alex turned back to each other, both obviously thinking the same thing, because the corner of his mouth curled into a grin and she tried to fight back a laugh.

Blake set the rest of her consult notes back on her desk, flashing one last conspiratorial smile over her shoulder as she mounted the landing—no way was she going to let the chance to tease Dave slip by untaken.

"So," she leaned against the door frame of Rossi's office, crossing her arms over her chest in a nonchalant pose. "I guess Erin will have lots to talk about whenever we go out for coffee."

Sweet God in Heaven, David Rossi actually  _blushed_  at the comment. It was so foreign and intriguing and adorable that Alex actually made a little sound of surprise at his reaction. Dave Rossi, the infamous cool cucumber, the forever-grinning Cheshire Cat, was  _blushing_  like a little boy.

"Don't make this a big thing, Alex—"

"Oh, we are  _way_  past the point of me not making this a big thing," she informed him. With another amused smile, she shook her head in wonder, "I don't think I've ever seen you blush, Dave. Ever. I mean, in all the years I've known you, I really don't think—"

"Alex, I'm human. Humans blush. It's a thing—"

"A thing people do when someone mentions another certain someone whom they happen to like—"

"We're way past that—"

"I figured as much, based on how spryly you stepped through the door this morning," she quipped with a dry grin. Quickly, she held up her hands in mock defense, "Please, spare me the details, though. I don't really need to know."

He laughed at her antics (she reminded him so much of his younger sister right now, with her devilish dancing eyes and juvenile remarks), "I'm not one to kiss and tell, so you're safe."

"Good," her grin deepened into something less playful, something warmer and happier. Dave was a good man, and more importantly, he was a good friend, and she was so glad to see the storm clouds gone from his eyes.

There was a beat of amused silence as they simply looked at one another.

"I'm happy for you," she stated, rather unnecessarily.

"I know." He smiled again.

"I know you know. I just wanted you to hear those words aloud." He understood the meaning behind her statement—despite the fact that their relationship had greatly improved over the past few months, Alex Blake still wasn't Erin Strauss' biggest fan, but she didn't want her friend to doubt that she was happy for his happiness. She didn't want him to just  _think_  that she was happy for him, she wanted him to truly  _know_  that she was.

"Now are you gonna stop harassing me and let me get some work done?" He tried to give his most severe and reprimanding look, though he was certain that it failed.

With another grin, Alex stepped away from his door. She turned back to Hotch, who was still watching this whole exchange from the bullpen, giving him a quick thumbs-up, wordlessly confirming that their diagnosis was correct, and he grinned in response.

David witnessed this silent conversation between his two co-workers and he gave a soft chuckle at the realization that nothing ever stayed a secret in a room full of profilers.

Well, some things did.

He was dead certain that no one on the team would ever know the truth about Christopher. He had meant what he'd said to Erin the day before—he never wanted their son to have to deal with the emotional turmoil of learning that his whole life was lie, and David would do whatever it took to ensure that never happened.

It was strange, how instantly and deeply he loved his son, the moment he had learned the truth (despite how painful and heartbreaking that truth had been). He'd been torn between wanting to walk away from the pain and needing to know everything about the young man who now connected David to Erin on a level far deeper than anything else ever could.

Erin had sensed this need, because she'd begun slowly telling him little stories about Christopher's life, bestowing them like gifts throughout the course of the past evening, and suddenly the marks on Erin's body left by her children took on a new meaning (because some of those marks were proof that she had carried his son and his love inside of her, resting just below her heart with the quiet weight of reality, a silent and unseen herald of all they had been and all they would ever be). Last night, he'd laid his head on her breast, his fingers lightly trailing over the slight ridges on her abdomen, the old scars which gleamed white in the dim lamplight, and she'd quietly told him tales of their son, her smooth and deep cadence humming through her chest and into the ear that was pressed against her warm flesh as her fingers lightly danced across his back and through his hair. It had been soft and golden and beautiful and David had actually shed a few tears, because it reminded him of the quiet moments with Carolyn, before James was born, when the world still seemed so hopeful and full of promise.

Erin had given him Christopher. Christopher had given him some semblance of that soft, sweet naiveté that hadn't filled David's heart since the loss of his first son.

God, he'd kill the man who dared to threaten his son, who sought to shame them with him (really, how could they ever be ashamed of such a thing, of such a boy, of such a gift?), who tried to ransack the defenses of his warrior-lover, who no doubt found such malicious delight in their suffering. He'd kill him with his bare hands.

This thought brought back another image from the night before—after Erin had finished telling her sweet stories, she had asked a deathly quiet question ( _David…David, if you're the one who catches him….will you make sure he dies? I want him to enter the FBI building in a body bag. Will you, will you make that happen?_ ), and he had somberly answered her ( _On all that is good and holy, bella, I swear I'll kill that bastard as soon as I catch him_ ). They had both simply stared at each other, understanding that this was more than just the need for justice, this had become a blood feud, a battle for survival that could only end one way. She had given a curt nod of her head, her grey-green eyes hard and glittering like diamonds as she kissed him fiercely ( _Good_.) and then she had pushed him back onto the mattress, her movements slow and weighted and burning with the single intent and ferocity of a lioness. They had both been angry, but not at each other, and in that darkness, yet another bond was formed between them—whoever this Replicator truly was, he would never live to stand trial, or to even answer a single question on his crimes (because the two predators that they were would never allow it, because they would never give him the chance to ruin their son's life, they would teach him what it truly meant to take on the tigers and their young, because they were creatures of blood and fire and fangs, and they would show him just how grievous a mistake it was to cross them).

As his mind played the reel of images that followed that pact (Erin on top of him, hips rolling and breathing jagged and fingers biting into his chest, lips pressed into a determined line), David suddenly realized that he shouldn't—couldn't—be thinking about these things at work. His body was already responding to the memories, and he couldn't afford to be distracted. Not now, not when the stakes were so high.

He gave a slight groan when a flash of movement caught his eye and he saw the source of his distraction barreling through the bullpen (Sweet Jesus in shortpants, how could he  _not_  be distracted when she was just right there, all delicious heat and smooth movements and flashing eyes?). She stopped to speak to Reid, who apparently had arrived sometime during David's reverie, her face filled with concern as the young doctor answered whatever question she had.

David could guess both the question and the answer, and he felt another wave of hot hatred towards the unknown bastard who was responsible for the worried look in Erin's eyes.

_Yes. I will kill him, bella. I'll look him dead in the eye and kill the son of bitch who has done this to us._

* * *

**October 1998. Somerset, Massachusetts.**

The tiny kitchen, which had once been the safest place in the world to Erin, seemed even tinier now that she was grown up, now that it was filled to the brim with family and light. The Breyer clan had all trekked up to their first home for the annual family reunion with the rest of Jameson's siblings, and despite their long history of slights and spats, everyone was currently in a festive and loving mood, creating an unbelievably domestic scene. Paul was upstairs, tucking in a very sleepy and grumpy Anna Claire, and Peter was still running around outside with Jordan and her cousins, playing kick-the-can under the sickly light of the old street lamps, and Erin's heart felt as warm and full as her mother's kitchen. She was still seated at the worn wooden table, playing an impromptu round of cards with Carole, Andrew, and their mother, who was waiting on another pie to finish baking for the next day's family gathering. Carole was sitting next to Erin, feet propped up on another chair in an effort to alleviate the swelling brought on by her final month of pregnancy, and Andrew was directly across from her, quietly sipping some iced tea as he waited for his mother's next play. Next to Andrew sat Elaine, whose brow furrowed in concentration as she shuffled through her cards.

Christopher was in the kitchen, too, quietly standing in the space between his mother and his grandmother, his large eyes taking in every nuance of the room. Erin could tell from his adorably concentrated expression that he was deep in thought over something, and she was almost afraid to know what was going through her son's mind because usually, that particular expression meant that he was crafting some master plan. The old adage about toddlers was always true when applied to Christopher Strauss—when things became silent, you should get worried. He occasionally glanced over at Carole, and Erin wondered if he was just curious about her strange transformation (he had been too young to remember her own pregnancy with Anna, and he'd never really been around another pregnant woman before, so this was a new experience for him).

Christopher quietly sidled up to his mother, his dark eyes so somber as he seriously intoned, "Mama, I think Aunt Carole swallowed a frog."

"What?" Erin tried to keep her smile in check (he always had such a strange imagination, this beautiful son of hers).

"Look," he whispered, nodding his head in Carole's direction (he'd been taught that it was impolite to point).

Erin glanced over and suddenly burst into laughter. The baby was kicking, visibly rippling the tight and full skin of her sister's belly, and it truly did look like a frog trying to break free, fluttering and hopping about underneath her skin.

"What on earth is going on?" Carole turned to her elder sister and her nephew, whose childish face was still filled with concern (he wasn't sure why his mother thought it was so funny, because having a frog flopping around in your tummy did not seem like a laughing matter at all).

"Chris thinks you might have swallowed a frog," Erin informed her, motioning in the direction of her sister's baby bump, suddenly losing her smile as she held her breath and waited for her sister's reaction (Carole didn't always share her sense of humor, she always was particularly prickly when it came to Erin, and her older sister suddenly realized that her laughter could be mistaken as something crueler than simple amusement at her son's imagination).

Andrew sputtered his drink back into the glass as he erupted into laughter. Even Elaine grinned as she gave her youngest son a warning spat on the shoulder (everyone was aware of how touchy Carole could be, and she didn't want them upsetting her daughter at a time like this).

Thankfully, Carole understood, because her hand went to the place where the child was kicking, and she, too, began to laugh—a small chuckle that built into a full laugh. Then Erin was laughing again (half in relief, half in mirth) as she lovingly caressed her son's dark head. He still was not amused, still very concerned for his aunt's welfare.

"It's just the baby kicking," Erin explained. "You used to do that, too, when you were still inside Mommy's belly."

"I did?" His face skewed in adorable confusion.

"You used to hop around like a little bunny rabbit," Elaine informed him, reaching over to scoop her grandson into her lap (it always amazed Erin, how tender and affectionate Elaine was with her grandchildren, how doting and mellow she'd become).

Christopher grinned at the imagery, looking around the table at his family, who were all still laughing. He looked to his smiling mother, whose eyes were shining at him in a familiar expression of love and adoration, "Did I really hop around like a bunny, Mama?"

"All the time," she reached over to pinch the tip of his nose, and he pretended to shy away, though he still wore the smug smile of a child who knows he is truly worshipped.

There was a beat of silence as everyone calmed down. Then Andrew suddenly roared again, sending both of his sisters into fits as well—Carole with her dainty giggle and Erin with her booming bray that could shatter glass. Christopher started laughing, too (because his mother was laughing and he liked laughing with her, liked knowing that she was laughing because he'd made her laugh), feeling so warm and happy in the small kitchen of his grandparents' old home, surrounded by his family.

Erin leaned forward on the table, propping her cheek against her fist as she smiled at the faces around her. She'd once read somewhere that a child could change everything—it could heal the wounds of ages past, it could strengthen families of the weakest bond, could cast away the darkest shadow of sorrow—and she knew that it was true. Here they sat, the strange and tangled connections of the Breyer clan, with their resentments and mutual history and old scars and soft loves, laughing together because of the simple words of a child.

It had been almost two months since her venomous final parting with David Rossi, but Erin still hadn't healed (in fact, she'd gone home and cried like a child the last time they'd spoken, the day of their ugly, bitter fight). There were still jagged edges in the corners of her heart that needed soothing and smoothing, but oh, moments like these always made the pain more bearable, when her sweet, shining, witty, wonderful son made her laugh so hard that her stomach hurt and tears filled her eyes. In fact, it was moments like these that made her realize that she could never regret the path she'd taken, because it had given her this jewel, this treasure so rare and beautiful, this curious little creature that had the power to change worlds with his smile, the power to heal wounds and bring together broken pieces with his innocence and charm.

The little boy who so unwittingly ruled the Universe was beaming at her, ecstatic to merely be the cause of his mother's smile, and she beamed back at him, her heart filling with another rush of love.

_Oh, he is my gift. In so many ways, he is my gift._

* * *

**May 2013. Vienna, Virginia.**

David took a moment to soak up this purely domestic moment, this live-action Normal Rockwell unfolding before him as he sat at Erin's dinner table, watching as she and Jordan bustled around the open kitchen, clearing away the table, loading the dishwasher, moving around each other without even having to glance up, like some intricately choreographed dance as they completed their tasks (he'd offered to help, but Erin had sternly informed him that since he'd prepared dinner, he could not break the rule of the House of Strauss— _he who cooks does not clean_ ).

Anna was still seated at the table, texting away (Erin had confiscated the phone during dinner, so now that it was back in her possession, the teen was trying to respond to all the messages she'd received). David glanced around, silently wondering to where Christopher had disappeared. Then he heard the first muffled chords of a guitar.

Erin hear the sound as well, because she stopped for a moment, turning back to David and nodding towards the French doors ( _he's in the backyard, go to him_ ). He couldn't help but smile, wondering if that was part of the reason that she hadn't let him help—so that he could have the excuse to be alone with Christopher, without making it too obvious.

He quietly slipped outside, taking a moment to watch the young man who was perched on the edge of a deck chair, too absorbed in his music to notice.

Once David moved closer, the movement caught his son's eye and Chris looked up with a small smile, his fingers still softly strumming the chords.

"You're pretty good," David motioned to the guitar.

"Been taking lessons since I was in middle school," Chris answered easily. "Mom made all of us learn a musical instrument. Said it broadened our cultural horizons."

David snorted at the statement—it sounded so high-brow and so positively Erin that he could actually hear her saying it in his head.

"I wanted to learn how to play the drums, but she quickly vetoed that idea," the younger man continued with a wry grin. "She told me I could choose between piano and guitar. Naturally, I wanted to pick up chicks, so I chose guitar."

"You don't think piano men get girls?" David's question was met by a short bark of a laugh (so much like Erin's). He persisted, "Seriously. What about Dean Martin?"

"You know, that's the exact same example Mom used," Chris shook his head with another wry chuckle. "It's like there was only one cool cat who played the piano, so suddenly he's the rule and not the exception?"

"Ray Charles."

"Also an exception."

"Jerry Lee Lewis."

"The man married his cousin when she was way young, dude. Not a good example at all."

David laughed in agreement at Christopher's assessment, giving a slight shrug of defeat, "OK, so maybe you were better off becoming a rock star."

"I'm not a rock star," Chris gave a sly grin. "College girls don't want rock stars—they want Bob Dylan. They want someone with brains, with words that makes sense and have real meaning."

"Do you write your own songs?"

"I've got a few that I'm working on, but they've got a long way to go."

"Would you mind playing one for me?" David tried to hide the nervousness in his voice, for he feared not being allowed to learn more about his son's mind and personality, feared pushing too far too soon and scaring Chris away.

"I don't think it's your style," Chris gave a slight shrug, his tone bordering somewhere between evasion and taunting. With a completely deadpan expression, he turned his face up to the old man, "I mean, it's no  _Mambo Italiano_."

The double reference to Dean Martin and David's heritage was not lost on the older man, and he laughed at the quip. Chris broke into a smile as well.

"I'm serious. I'd like to hear something of yours," David sat in the deck chair next to Christopher's.

"You sure?" Suddenly, Chris seemed very young and hesitant, as if he feared disappointing the older man with his work.

"Absolutely."

"Alright. Just…just remember, it's still in the early stages."

"Understood."

"Very rough draft."

"Got it." David gave a curt nod.

"I mean, there's a lot—"

"Sweet Jesus in shortpants, son, before I die of old age, play the song!"

Now it was Chris' turn to laugh, and David felt a soft ripple of happiness at the thought that he'd just called him by his true title ( _son_ ), and the young man hadn't even flinched, perhaps hadn't even noticed (that was OK, too, because even if Christopher never truly understood everything that word held and meant for David, it wouldn't change the truth behind it).

Clearing his throat and offering one last shy smile ( _please like it_ ), Chris began delicately picking out the opening chords, his deep-but-soft voice gathering strength as he became less nervous, lifting onto the late night breeze and drifting into the rippling leaves of the morning glory vines that shivered and danced in time with his music.

From inside the house, Erin watched her son and his father, sitting quietly in the warm summer night, the slightest strains of Christopher's guitar slipping through the closed doors and into her heart with a gentle ease. She blinked back tears (gods, how easily she cried these days) and quietly went about her work, allowing them to truly have a few moments alone. She wanted David to have memories of Christopher that didn't include her, memories that were his very own, not secondhand stories she'd gifted to him, not moments where Chris' presence was merely guaranteed because hers was there as well—she wanted Chris to want to spend time with David, wanted David to know that Chris didn't merely tolerate him as his mother's boyfriend, and she hoped that their quiet time together would make Christopher trust David like a father, in the way that he deserved to be trusted and loved.

After the kitchen was cleaned and cleared, Anna disappeared upstairs and Jordan curled up in the living room to watch reruns of  _The West Wing_  (that was her go-to comfort, she'd watched each episode so many times that she could quote them by heart), so Erin simply retired to her own room to read.

Several chapters later, she heard David and Christopher laughing as they re-entered the house. They wished each other good night, and she was fairly certain she heard the slight pat of a hand on a back (they were hugging, she could sense it), and she heard David softly telling Chris that everything was going to be OK.

Then he was in the room with her, quietly shutting the door and sitting on the edge of the bed to take his shoes off. She set down her book and crawled towards him, sitting up on her knees and lightly tracing the lines of his shoulders as she quietly asked, "Y'okay?"

"I'm better than OK, bella," he returned softly, swiveling to reach for her and pull her closer. She took off her glasses before meeting his mouth with her own, leaning forward a little when she felt the strength of his arm still supporting her.

"We have to be quiet tonight," she reminded him. He gave a slight chuckle and she sat back, "What?"

"It's just so domestic. Very unlike the Erin I know."

She shared his wicked grin, leaning forward again as her voice dipped into a taunting tone, "It looks like I'll have to teach you something new yet again, Mr. Rossi. There's a difference between being  _quiet_  and being  _tame_."

"That is one lesson I am very eager to learn, kitten."

* * *

David Rossi was a very fast learner, Erin could not deny that. She gave a grin at the thought as his mouth covered her own again, muffling their mutual moans as he pushed further in and she welcomed him, wrapping her legs tighter around him.

When it came to passion and sex, her dark-haired lover had always been very intense, very committed to the moment and the feeling and the breath and the heat (it had scared her, the first time she'd been with him, how quiet and concentrated he'd become, how attentive and slowly scorchingly focused, how grounded and  _present_  he'd been, but now it was something she loved, something she appreciated and tried to reciprocate), but tonight, there seemed to be something further, something stronger and more direct behind his gaze. She tried to read the deep brown eyes that never left her own, but she found herself drowning in their dark depths, all coherent thought escaping her mind as she filled with more heat, more longing for the man who was already so deep inside of her. With a soft sigh, she raised her head to kiss him again. This time, she didn't close her eyes. Neither did he.

"I meant what I said last night," he whispered hoarsely, his mouth still so close to her own that his lips brushed across hers as he spoke.

"What?" She tried to clear the haze in her mind, tried to decipher his meaning.

"I won't ever let that bastard hurt our son," he answered, his movements changing and matching his fierce tone.

"I know," she answered simply, her arms slipping around his back as her fingers pressed into the flesh of his shoulder blades, encouraging him. "And I won't, either."

"What if I'm not the one who gets to him first?" David asked, though he already knew the answer.

His skin was set on fire by the determined look in those green eyes as her voice dipped into a lower, darker shade, "If he makes it back into FBI custody, I'll find a way to kill him myself. Let them charge me with murder; I'll take the stand as an emotionally distraught mother. No one in the world would blame me."

She was serious, deathly so. She was his hard and shining lover, not a mere queen but a calculating tactician in a bloody battle, one with the cool intellect to formulate such a strategy and the adamantine resolve to see it through.

They had just truly made a pact to kill a man, but it certainly wasn't in cold blood—no, their blood was hot and alive with fury and fire and determination, a thing of sharp edges and unyielding determination. It was yet another new plane in the strange journey of their relationship, another line that was crossed, another point of no return, another Rubicon crossed, another bridge burned, and yet for the first time, this burning bridge did not weaken their bond, but rather strengthened it. They were forever united in this cause, forever bound by this crusade.

They were fighting an unholy war, fighting side-by-side (so different from the years spent turning their spears and shields on one another) against an unknown foe with the heated fervor that all creatures feel when their survival is threatened—but they were fighting for something so much more important than their own pride or survival, they were fighting for  _their son_. In that moment, in the mutual acknowledgement of their irrevocable agreement, in the final tying of their fates to each other, David felt Erin's climax rumbling underneath him like the foreshock of an earthquake, though she kept her eyes locked onto his, her mouth pressing into a thin line as she tried to suppress the cry building in her chest. She held on for as long as she could, finally pulling his mouth onto hers with a sudden ferocity as she breathed into him, something between a growl and a groan as her body froze in a moment of ecstatic agony.

As he found his own release, moaning into her open and pulsing mouth, David was certain that he tasted the coppery tang of blood. An oath was given, a compact was made, and now it was sealed in deepest, darkest bond of all—the bond of blood.

* * *

_"And as the world comes to an end, I'll be here to hold your hand, 'cause you're my king and I'm your lionheart."_

_~Of Monsters & Men, 'King and Lionheart'._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, yes, I did totally name this chapter after an Amy Winehouse song.


	35. Skeletons on Parade

_"But as in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of today, or the agonies which are have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been."_

_~Edgar Allan Poe._

* * *

**May 2013. Washington, D.C.**

Erin Strauss chewed her bottom lip distractedly, not really listening to the other person speaking as her eyes cautiously scanned the room.

She hated waiting. She was so horribly bad at it.

She had laid her trap for the Replicator, but she couldn't be content just to sit back and wait for him to reveal himself. Her body was filled with a weird pulsing energy, some anxious pounding dread that made her insides quiver with the need to move, to go, to do.

She hadn't told David about changing the report. She couldn't, even though she didn't like keeping it from him (she'd promised that there were no more secrets between them, but this was a necessary thing, a Chinese wall to ensure that her trap was well-set). Last night, after he'd drifted to sleep, she had gotten up, too nervous to lie still, and had re-organized every single book in her study (twice), had swept the floors and dusted the living room, had alphabetically sorted every spice on the rack in the kitchen, had folded every piece of clean laundry and exhausted every excuse to be up and moving. On a positive note, her home hadn't suffered from the fact that she hadn't let the housecleaner come by for the past two weeks (she couldn't have anyone in her home besides her family, not right now, not when the Replicator could be anyone, anywhere). Then she had slipped back into bed and watched David sleep, envious of his ability to simply be still.

Today, she was starting her morning with another AA meeting. Though she didn't truly expect to find the Replicator smiling back at her, she still held the faintest hope that she might spot him there, or that she might notice someone on the street or someone who watched her too intently at the coffee shop. If he stalked the entire team, then he had to have some kind of schedule, certain days when he followed a certain team member—when was it her turn? Would she be able to even know or notice?

Any day could be the day. Any moment could be the moment of discovery, the final clicking of recognition, the falling into place of the next puzzle piece. She must be vigilant, alert,  _ready_.

Of course, attending these meetings was a double-bounty, because she had to keep records of when she attended, as part of her agreement with her superiors (which defeated the purpose of the whole 'anonymous' thing, but it had been a stipulation that had allowed her to keep her job, so she dutifully assented). Right now, the director was so pleased to know that in a time of stress, she was drawing closer to some Higher Power for support and strength (even more pleased because it had been his suggestion and she had followed it, furthering the almost feudal hierarchy that reigned within the Bureau).

Let the director think that she was being a good girl. She needed some goodwill to pad her personnel file, because she was fairly certain that soon, her actions were going to get her into some serious trouble. If she were forced to enact her part of the pact with David ( _if he makes it back into FBI custody, I'll find a way to kill him myself_ ), she would need to establish an abrupt change in behavior, brought on by the stress of this UNSUB threatening her child. Her near-religious devotion to her AA meetings could be used as proof that she was desperately seeking some kind of help to deal with this burden, and Erin hadn't wasted her life spent around judges and lawyers and men who determined  _mens rea_  and  _actus reus_  and reasonable doubt and points of evidence—she knew how to build a case, to establish a defense long before it was actually needed.

That was where this bastard had made his deadliest mistake—he knew  _about_  David and Erin, but he didn't  _know_  them. He thought that he did, and his smug assumption blinded him. He underestimated her. To Erin, who'd spent a good part of her young adult life being underestimated and dismissed without a second glance, this was actually a boon. When someone underestimated her, he gave her the power to surprise him, to overtake him, to slip past his defenses and take out his throat before he even knew what had happened. She would use this to her advantage. She would use his own weakness against him. And she would win.

Now if only he would hurry up and make a move.

* * *

**September 2012. Washington, D.C.**

Killing someone was easier than John Curtis thought it would be. He expected to feel the stereotypical angst over his actions, the need to reason and justify to himself, but surprisingly, that hadn't happened.

It had to be done. So he did it. No remorse, no hesitation, no regrets.

He was proud of himself, for being able to remain logical and rational throughout the process, for being unmoved by the pleas and the sheer desperate humanity of it all. He didn't find any particular joy in it (it was simply a task, a necessary thing that must be done, like washing dishes or taking out the garbage, a vital step in his intricate plan against the BAU), and that was reassuring as well. It meant that he was still in-control. He could do anything that he put his brilliant mind to, and he could do it without being overrun by sloppy human emotions.

Now he was waiting for the oh-so-clever band of behavioral analysts to realize the similarities between his work and the case they'd closed just two weeks ago—the very first case for SSA Alex Blake.

Of course, he wasn't just  _waiting_. No, no, he had so much more to do. And if this were going to be the wonderfully constructed chess match that he'd hoped for, then he couldn't simply rest on his laurels—when it was your opponent's move, you didn't simply switch your brain off while they considered their next advance; you predicted and prepared for every possible move they would make and every three moves after that, too. You played the whole game, saw the whole board.

Right now, he was doing just that—learning the layout of the rest of the board. There were so many pieces, so many players to unravel and understand.

Now, technically, the team as a unit was the king on the chessboard, the thing to be checked and capitulated. But there was one more piece that still held more power, though less significance—the queen. The game could continue without her, but John wanted her to be the last to fall before checking the entire Bureau with his final act of defiance.

Erin Strauss. The shining girl of the Bureau, the white queen. How perfectly fitting—except for the fact that she wasn't quite as pristine as her chess counterpart, with her blood-stained hands and her dirty sins of days past.

Yes, he was learning a lot more about her recently. For example, right now he was quietly sitting in the outer hallway of the church basement, listening to her soft and deep voice echoing through the concrete rooms as she shakingly recounted her booze-soaked history to a group of strangers in the next room.

She'd even mentioned something about having an affair, a one-nighter with a colleague—he knew who it was, because he'd seen the way she'd reached for him, that day at the bank. David Rossi.

He also remembered that when he'd held her hand, helping her over the rubble, her wedding ring had been missing. A quick search of court records had revealed that Paul and Erin Strauss were now legally divorced, though they first separated about a year ago (just before she went into detox for the last time). But the way that Strauss and Rossi had looked at one another—that was not something new, not something that had just sprung into life, but rather something built out of years of knowing, years of sideways glances and other little moments that piled up into a tangled mess of sticky human emotions.

John remembered that the divorce petition had also mentioned a minor child, one Anna Claire Strauss—he wondered how Erin's darling daughter would react to finding out that Mommy dearest had slept around while she was still married to Daddy. With a wicked grin, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and began searching the web (Strauss wasn't speaking anymore, so he didn't have to pay so much attention to what was happening in the other room).

He found Anna Claire on a social networking site (of course, her profile wasn't set to private, because kids never thought about these things). He looked at her profile picture— _my, she does look like Erin_ —and when he flipped over to the next photo, his eyes lit up.

' _With the sibs'_  was the caption. Two more faces smiled back at him from some tropical locale, bright-faced and happy. These two must be over 18, which was why they weren't mentioned in the custody proceedings. The other daughter didn't favor Erin as much, though she still had those eyes.

But the son. Now he  _did_  favor someone, but not Erin.

He looked remarkably like David Rossi.

John had to clap his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing at this fortuitous turn of events. Surely Fate and Karma had chosen his side in this fight, because, really, how else could such a thing be possible?

_Oh, Erin. I'm going to resurrect all the skeletons in your closet, and we're going to have a parade. Just for you._

* * *

**December 2011. Somerville Military Academy, Oceanside, Florida.**

Something was wrong. David's dark eyes quietly observed Morgan and Hotch, who were currently holding a conversation out in the hallway, as he and Prentiss returned to the library to share their latest news—and from Morgan's tense and agitated body language, it certainly wasn't a pleasant discussion.

Over two hours later, the entire team was reassembled to debrief the events of the afternoon. Erin was seated at the table, staring down at her hands with a blank expression (she seemed to do that a lot lately, simply checking out of her body while her mind wandered). However, when Morgan entered the room, her shoulders hitched just slightly, as if she was preparing for some new battle. And despite the warnings that were radiating off Erin's frame like pulsars, Morgan sat next to the section chief as she crossed her arms over her chest in response, as if further shutting him out ( _God bless you, poor boy, for whatever you've done and whatever hell you're about to receive from Erin Strauss_ ). David took a seat across the table, enabling him to get a better view of this micro-drama unfolding between the two.

Everyone did a quick debrief, each pair of partners informing the rest of the team of the latest events. Whenever it was Morgan and Strauss' turn, the younger man gave a quick, uneasy look at the blonde seated next to him, but she didn't even deign to acknowledge his presence. He turned his attention back to the others, briefly recapping their encounter with Colonel Massey earlier that day (and graciously omitting the way it really ended).

As someone else began to speak, David kept his attention focused on Morgan and Erin—those two didn't exactly have the smoothest working relationship, but normally things weren't this tense between the brash young agent and his superior. And it was a strange turn, because he didn't seem angry at her, but rather concerned (his gaze kept flitting over to her impassive profile, almost as if he was hoping for some new reaction, almost as if he wanted to say something, but didn't dare). However, Erin looked livid, in the quiet, dangerous way that announced the imminent arrival of Really Angry Erin.

And in a horribly childish and selfish way, David Rossi felt a pang of jealousy. He used to be the only one who could inspire such a reaction in Erin Strauss. He'd always seen it as some kind of perverse badge of honor (he was the only one who bore the brunt of her virulent anger, but then again, he was the only one who enjoyed the equal intensity of her passion, whenever everything else between them became overwhelming), and he didn't like the idea of sharing that (especially the flip side of this strange coin) with anyone else.

Right now, Erin Strauss was holding a mental debate over whether she wanted to cry or simply shriek, although neither of those options were appropriate at this particular time, and especially not in this particular place.

Gods, she'd really fucked it up this time. For years, she'd prided herself on being a professional, on never letting her personal life seep into her job, on being able to separate emotion and focus on the task at hand—and now, all of that was gone, ruined by one wrong choice too many.

Andrew was dying, Paul was leaving, and here she was, adding fuel to the fire instead of actually doing anything to contain the situation. But now, it was too late, and she truly felt the free-fall that she'd been spiraling into for weeks now.

Yes, she'd started drinking again. No, she didn't think it was a problem. Other people thought it was a problem, and  _that_  was a problem. After her first round of rehab, she'd learned enough of the jargon to know that she was a highly functioning alcoholic (because even she could admit that she fit the technical definition of an alcoholic, although she knew that she was strong enough to quit any time she damn well wanted), and that had been a point of pride for her, a standard by which to judge her need for help—she was still waking up every morning, going to work, doing her job (still quite well, might she add), taking care of her family (though it was crumbling around her, despite her best attempts), and basically maintaining the same pace that she'd kept for years now.

Of course, none of that mattered to Agent Morgan, who no doubt would tell everyone that she was a raging booze-hound the first chance he got. That morning, he'd gotten close enough to smell the alcohol on her breath and he'd spun into a tizzy, claiming that she was going to jeopardize the entire case (an absurd and childish notion, as if she didn't know how things worked, as if she hadn't been in the Bureau when he was still in fucking  _grade_ school). Now, he was sitting so close to her that she could actually feel the heat radiating off his body, glancing over at her every two seconds (most likely out of sick curiosity, because he certainly couldn't feel concern for her, because he simply wanted an answer—all profilers were like that, damned curious and needing-to-know but not really caring, because for them it was just an ego boost, just a way of knowing their assumptions were correct), and with each glance, she felt her anger and frustration build, because she knew, beyond all shadow of doubt, that he was going to use this knowledge against her. It was no secret that Derek Morgan was not a fan of Erin Strauss, and they'd butted heads on more than one occasion—oh, he must be  _dying_  for a chance to knock down the Ice Queen (yes, she knew what they said about her, behind her back), thanking the gods above for giving him such juicy ammunition against his enemy.

So this was how it would all end. A dying brother, a nonexistent marriage, three children who'd always been pushed aside for her own selfish ambition, and the career for which she'd sacrificed so much suddenly gone, and she was too old and too tired to fight for it, too exhausted to do anything but simply let it slip through her fingers.

_This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper._

_And a sip of alcohol_ , she added dryly, surprising herself with her ability to find humor in the situation. Still, she felt like ripping her own hair out at the thought that everything was falling apart, all at the same time and much too quickly, and she couldn't do anything about it. Losing control meant losing power, and losing power meant being weak. Being weak was as good as being dead.

 _Breyers are physically incapable of weakness_ , her father had once proudly informed her.  _Those that are weak, aren't truly Breyers._

As a child (hell, even as a full-grown adult), that had been something to strive for, a point of pride, a badge of honor, a mark of belonging ( _I am strong because I am a Breyer; I am a Breyer because I am strong_ ).

That was probably her greatest source of panic and pain. She was letting Daddy down, proving to him that she wasn't truly the beautiful golden girl that he'd believed her to be, in whom he'd placed so much love and hope. Silently, she thanked the heavens that he was gone—she would never want him to see her inevitable fall from grace. The disappointment and heartbreak in his eyes would have been too much to bear.

Now her anger rolled into a mournful sorrow for all the things she'd lost, for all the things she was still losing, inch by precious inch, day by agonizing day. Her brother, her husband, her children, her worthiness (though she never really had that), her sense of self and place and purpose in this world.

Aaron Hotchner finally dismissed everyone, though Erin had been too distracted to really hear what the others had said. At this particular moment, she simply needed to be away from everyone, to breathe and to think of her next move, because this surely would be a battle.

She exited the building, quietly leaning against a pillar of the covered walkway, taking a moment to simply enjoy the weather (so much warmer here, compared to the icy, rainy, depressing mess back home). She used to be able to find comfort in nature; there was a time when she would have relished working on a case surrounded by so much open sky and green rolling hills. Now those things didn't seem to have any effect on her, and she was too tired to even feel saddened at the loss.

She needed another drink.

Shit. Maybe she was an alcoholic.

 _No, I_ want _a drink. I do not need one. There's a difference._

She heard the door open behind her, and she knew it could only be one of two people. The hesitant, gentle footsteps came closer, and her skin began to ripple with that old familiar feeling. Gods, above, just what she needed—another battle royale with the one man who knew how to push her buttons unlike any other human being. All she wanted was five fucking minutes of peace, time to regroup and regather her thoughts, and here he was, to poke and prod and pry, and she had to throw up her defenses yet again (it was so draining, keeping him at bay, hiding her every nuance because he never missed a single thing, not when she wanted him to).

"What do you want, David?"

David Rossi took a moment to take in the scene before him, to take in the rigid lines of her posture, to fully measure the depth of her mood. Then he spoke, softly, "To make sure you're OK."

"Why wouldn't I be?" Her tone held an edge, a touch of searching ( _what do you know, what did Morgan tell you?_ ).

"I don't know. That's why I'm here." He answered simply, tucking his hands into his pockets. He wasn't trying to start another row with her, not when she was already so visibly upset, not when he didn't even know why she was so angry. He stepped forward, moving closer so that he could actually see her face, which was set in a firm mask ( _no, you're not reading me today, buddy_ ).

"Curiosity killed the cat," she warned him, crossing her arms over her chest as her gaze remained firmly fixed at the sprawling lawns before her.

"Stupidity killed the cat. Curiosity was framed," he returned easily, waiting for some kind of reaction.

This earned him the slightest smirk at the corner of that mouth which was set in a hard, thin line. She was squinting in the early afternoon sunshine and suddenly she looked old and so very, very tired. When had his bella become so wan and worn-out?

 _Bella_. He hadn't called her that in years, not even in his thoughts. She was the first woman he'd given that moniker, but she wasn't the last. No, after the beautifully soft night in Seattle (the first time, almost twenty years ago), he'd felt displaced and off-balance, and he'd quickly found a new bella—Vanessa, the woman who later became Mrs. David Rossi Number Three.

Vanessa had been a mistake of the worst kind—she'd been some kind of replacement, a safe haven from all the things he couldn't have or want from Erin Strauss, a poor man's substitution for all the things he felt towards the blonde woman who was standing next to him, who now seemed so flat and devoid of spark.

David had been back in the Bureau, back in Erin's orbit for four years now, but this was the closest they'd been in quite some time. Had those lines around her eyes always been so deep and dark? Had her shoulders always been so slumped and broken, as if the world was pressing on her back? How long had she been like this? How long had he been unaware?

"Whatever answer you're looking for, you're not going to find it," she stated flatly.

"I'm not looking for anything," he kept his tone soft, gentle.

Her expression was something between a smirk and a snarl, "You're always looking for something, David. It's who you are. You never can be simply satisfied with what you have."

He had to smile at this, because it was true on some level. "You know me too well."

"Yes," her voice was quiet and heartbreakingly small. "I do."

He understood the double entendre, though he couldn't possibly know the rest of her thought ( _I've known you too well, too many times, for too long, and that's why we're in this mess, because you put me here, you and all the pieces you left behind, you and all the things I can never tell you_ ).

The realization that he was (and had always been) the source of her troubles only reignited the anger burning in her chest, and she was surprised to hear her own voice, harsh and clipped, as she demanded, "Why are you here, David?"

"I told you—"

"No. You told me that you wanted to make sure I was OK. You didn't tell me  _why_  you wanted to make sure I was OK."

"Erin, I—"

"Because I truly have no interest in simply being another  _thing_  for you to observe."

He felt the first prick of indignation at her accusation, at her implication that he couldn't be acting out of genuine concern. "Now, look—"

"I think I've been the brunt of your experimentation for long enough, don't you think?" She turned quickly to him, looking at him for the first time, and suddenly David realized that she was on the verge of tears. What the hell was going on here? What were they even talking about?

"Erin, I have no idea what you mean," he decided to take the path of honesty, because her sudden attack was confusing as hell, because her shift in emotion and her red-rimmed eyes were alarming, because he knew that he couldn't fix this if he didn't know what  _this_  was.

Her anger passed just as quickly as it had appeared, like heat lightning on the open prairie, all spark with no actual storm, and he saw those eyes (God Almighty, those eyes would always be the end of him) fill with a deep sadness.

She seemed to age another ten years as she sadly admitted, "No. No, you don't."

He had no idea. He would never have any idea. They would forever be two people having one conversation about two different subjects, two trains heading in the same direction but on different tracks. Nothing could ever change that.

Now she wanted to cry. Of course, she couldn't do that, not in front of him, because that would mean more questions and more frustration and more things that could never be spoken about. She simply turned and walked away.

David was smart enough not to pursue her. Still, his eyes followed her, the woman who'd always tried to be so strong and untouchable, whom he knew to be so much more human and fragile, who was somehow falling to pieces in front of him, and he felt another pang of sadness, knowing that she was intentionally isolating herself from him.

There was a time when she would have let him in, when she would have quietly told him what was on her mind, but obviously that time was long past. In fact, they'd never had a moment even remotely close to their old camaraderie since he'd returned to the BAU.

Their relationship had endured many evolutions. Maybe that was just the newest one, the one where they finally fell apart on every level and reached the point of no return, the point of no repair. The thought was like an ice pick to David's gut.

Surely this wasn't the end. Surely these uncertain silences and vague, pained references to the past were not the final stage of all they would become. Surely this was not how they would always be.

* * *

**June 1998. Quantico, Virginia.**

The only sound in David Rossi's unbelievably tiny office was the furious pitter-patter of his fingers across the keyboard as he tried to keep up with the thoughts tumbling out of his mind. He was currently reliving an old case for a book that he was co-writing with his former colleague turned jet-set author and television consultant, Ruthie Golden, and since technically the office was closed for the day, glorious silence reigned, allowing him to truly delve into his work.

There was a light, timid knock on his door, and he inwardly cursed whatever God-forsaken soul had come to disturb his flow before letting out a tart, "Yeah?"

The door opened quietly, cautiously, and still he didn't look away from his computer screen as he prompted, "Whaddya need?"

"I, um, I was just—Arkaday needed these photos and he's gone, so I was just going to leave them."

That voice. He stopped and immediately turned to face the owner of that soft and uncertain timbre, to the wide eyes that could consume his soul without a second's pause, though they were so unwitting to their power, so naïve in their own allure.

"Erin." He said simply, because he wasn't sure what else to say.

She blushed, obviously flustered by the gentle awe in his tone. However, she quickly recovered, giving her skirt a deft tug (it still seemed so strange to him, to witness the transformation of Erin Strauss—after years of seeing her in jeans and button-downs and horrible shoes, now she was a creature clad in nylons and pencil skirts and heels that did lovely things for her already-lovely legs), clearing her throat as she continued, "I just didn't want to leave this lying around the office—it's…well, it's not exactly something you want the cleaning crew thumbing through."

She stepped forward, extending her arm to give him the stack of crime scene photos. He knew that her statement wasn't a barb aimed at the housekeeping staff, but rather something out of respect for the victims in the photos, who had already been objectified and humiliated enough. He'd forgotten how much stuff like that affected her, how easily she flinched at their line of work, even though she'd been at this for years now.

He looked up again, noticing that she'd stepped back away from him (she was edgy and fidgety like a spooked horse, ready to bolt again at the slightest provocation), and he suddenly realized that he missed her. Even now, when she was standing less than ten feet away from him, he missed her—he missed the easy camaraderie and laughs that had been between them (before, back in Seattle, and even before that, whenever they weren't busy trying to verbally tear one another apart), he even missed fighting with her, missed the little quiet moments that happened while working on a case together, missed other aspects of their relationship that he certainly couldn't ever mention aloud, even missed her long blonde hair and ratty jeans (because those were familiar things, things that made up his Erin—Sweet Jesus, when was she ever  _his_?).

If Erin were totally honest with herself (and she wouldn't be, not about this, not about him, not about them), she would admit that she knew that Alan Arkaday would not be down here at this hour—he was actually one of the few in the BAU who still had a solid home life, and he always left as early as possible to be with his family. She also knew that David would be the last one to leave (he always was, always had been), and after two whole months of studiously avoiding him, she'd found that her stupid curiosity and even stupider heart wanted another glimpse of him.

But her excuse was gone—she'd delivered the photos, and now she had no reason to stay (gods, she found herself wishing that she did), so she gave one last curt nod as she moved back to the door, "Well, I'll let you get back to work—"

"How are you?" His voice was so soft, so filled with longing and tenderness and all the things that he could never say, that they were never supposed to feel, and his simple question stopped her in her tracks.

He might as well have just reached into her ribcage and squeezed her poor little heart, because it literally stopped for a full beat at his tone. Taking a deep breath and quickly regaining control of herself, she turned back to face him.

"I'm well. Thank you."

How polite and precise and distant. How very Ice Queen (yes, he'd heard the whisperings when he returned to Quantico, the little asides that people tossed about whenever Erin Strauss was mentioned in conversation, and he'd begun to realize that she truly was climbing her way to the top, with the amount of toes she'd stepped on and the bad blood she'd stirred up since he'd last worked with her).

But when he truly looked at the woman standing before him, he didn't see a woman of ice. He saw a girl frozen with fear and uncertainty and a deep desire to simply be adored and accepted and praised for being the rule-abiding good girl that she was. Sure, she had grown past some of those impulses, had learned not to care so much, but it was all still there, and right now, it was staring him in the face.

"That's good." He gave a slight nod. A weighted beat passed.

"And you?" Erin's voice went up a notch and she cursed herself for sounding like an idiotic love-struck girl. "How are you doing, David?"

Only she could pronounce his name with such softness that it felt like a caress, as if he could actually feel it slipping across his shoulder blades and settling warmly on his chest (he knew what it felt like, when her hands did just that, and again, that was something he missed but could never express).

"I'm well." He smiled softly.

"That's good," she looked truly relieved, and he wondered if she'd actually been worried about him.

"It's strange, not having you out in the field with us." This was as close to saying  _I miss you_  as he could get, this was as much as he could offer her, as much as she would ever allow, and they both knew it.

"Such is life," she gave a small, apologetic shrug.

"I think your desk job suits you, though," he admitted, motioning to her neatly tailored outfit. Normally, she would assume that he was making a pass at her, but he was much too quiet and sorrowful right now.

"I think so, too," she agreed. With a wry grin, she added, "I've always been pretty good at sitting back and telling other people how to do their job."

He grinned in response—a true grin, not one of the shy, sad smiles he'd been giving since her appearance. There was a beat of something clicking back into place, as if perhaps they were going to finally find their footing again, but it was cut short by the harsh ringing of the phone, which echoed loudly in the eerily quiet office.

"Rossi," he answered curtly, now inwardly cursing whoever had ruined what could have been a healing moment between him and the blonde, who'd jumped back closer to the door, as if she'd been caught in the middle of some unseemly act.

"David, darling," a familiar female voice, heavy and laden with a pulsing neediness, came across the line. "When are you coming home?"

Though Erin Strauss couldn't hear the other person on the line, she saw how David's eyes darted to the photo at the edge of his desk—a beautiful, much younger woman with deeply tanned skin and dark gypsy eyes that looked as she could devour the whole world—and she instinctively knew that he was on the phone with his wife (she never could keep track, was this number three or number four?).

"Soon, Nessa," he promised, his voice dipping into a reassuring whisper that was so full of sweetness that Erin's throat closed up with some indescribable emotion, and she was shocked by her own reaction. How could two simple words make her twitter like a simpering fool—especially when those words were directed at another woman? After all this time, after all the stress and panic and heartache he'd caused her, how in hell could she still be so easily taken in?

David, of course, was completely unaware.

"You said that an hour ago," his wife's voice lost her little-girl pleading and took on the hard petulance of a sulky toddler (that was the problem—no matter what emotion Vanessa experienced, she always expressed herself with a childishness that belied her age of thirty-two years).

"I know," he answered simply, because honestly, he didn't want to tell her the truth ( _I'm avoiding you and avoiding our next fight over how much time I spend at work_ ), especially with Erin Strauss standing in the same room.

In a way, Erin was responsible for this mess. After Seattle, David had found himself filled with a strange restlessness, as if he were rattling around inside the emptiness of his own brain, caught between the fallout of his second divorce and the strange sensation that somehow, things with Erin had changed yet again (because that time, he'd admitted that he cared, though not aloud, and certainly not to her). Desperate to find some kind of solid ground, desperate to forget, desperate to live with the things he couldn't change, he'd quickly fallen into the arms of Vanessa Guidicelli, a woman whose youthful fervor and appetites had proven a welcome distraction from the uneasiness rippling beneath his skin. She was a third generation Italian-American, mocha skinned with deep dark eyes, always overly emotional and direct and needy and obsequiously compliant (all the things that Erin Strauss had never been and would never be), always fervent and passionate (but never as deeply or as truly as Erin was), and always childish and petulant when it came to his affection and attention. At first, he'd found her refreshing, because he never had to wonder how she felt (about anything), and he never had to question her feelings towards him. She had a loving ferocity about her, the way all Italian women had, and that was the quality that made him think that it would work between them, because of their common heritage. But lover and wife soon turned into something more like a sulky teenager whenever she realized that he would never stop his entire life to adhere to her every whim (whenever he realized that her obsequiousness was feigned, a simple attempt at manipulating him into feeling guilty for not giving her everything she asked for in return), and the subsequent fallout had been absolute hell.

"I just have a few things to finish up, and then I'll be home," he promised before he hung up.

Erin was wearing an odd expression as she quietly nodded towards the photo, "Your wife?"

It wasn't really a guess, and they both knew it. She'd noticed his wedding ring the first time they'd seen each other after his return to Quantico, and she'd actually been relieved, because she had felt that the gold band on his finger had been another good excuse to avoid him at all costs (not that it had stopped either of them before, and not that it changed how she'd reacted to him whenever he was near). However, relief was not the thing that she felt stirring in her heart at this particular moment.

"Vanessa," he supplied.

"She's very lovely," Erin murmured as she gazed at the woman smiling back from the frame (gods, she would be forty next year, forty years old with three kids and a husband of almost twenty years, with scars and wrinkles, and David's wife looked like she couldn't be a day over thirty, with perky breasts and a delicious exoticism with which Erin could never compete—what had he ever seen in Erin, with her plain WASP looks and cold pragmatism and defunct passion?).

"She can be," he answered rather cryptically, stamping down another wave of frustration at the thought that her beauty had covered a multitude of petty sins ( _beauty is as beauty does_ , his mother used to always say). Since they were on the subject of spouses, he hazarded a query of his own, "So how's Paul?"

"Good." She answered quickly, too quickly (which he noticed but graciously didn't point out). She didn't feel right, talking about Paul, not with David, not when they'd both hurt him in so many ways.

"You have...three kids now?" He tried to remember.

"Yes," she gave a curt nod, her heart suddenly hammering at the talk of children ( _three are mine, two are Paul's, one is yours_ ). Maybe that had been David's attraction to her—maybe he'd simply never had a boring suburbanite housewife on his list of conquests, maybe she was just another box to be checked. Deep down, she knew it wasn't as simple or as cruel as that, but right now, she didn't want to truly think about it. She needed to be angry, because anger made her harder, and at this particular moment, she was feeling soft and vulnerable, so easily wounded by the slightest nuances of his voice, burning under the directness of his gaze like some poor soul trapped beneath the iron chains of her own personal Torquemada, though he could never truly know the power he held over her.

David Rossi was a master profiler. She was dead-certain that he could see her jealousy, her envy, her disgusting heartsickness, her hidden truths so plainly visible to a man of such acumen.

Oddly enough, when it came to reading people, Erin Strauss had always been David's Achilles heel, the one he never could truly comprehend. Right now, he couldn't even categorize what emotion she was experiencing, though he could spend hours simply watching the slightest shifts and nuances of her face.

There was an awkward, heavy silence, filled with all the ghosts and skeletons and all the things they'd done and felt but could never mention, all the things they said without ever uttering a word, as they simply stared at one another.

He gave a slightly embarrassed chuckle, trying to ease the tension as he quietly (almost forlornly) admitted, "It's...it's been so long, I'm not sure what questions to ask anymore. So much has happened."

Erin gave a small smile in agreement. He was right—so much had happened, their lives had grown much farther apart, yet there were still so many things left undone and unknown between them, and they no longer could simply pick up and move on like they used to do. She didn't belong here, in his little basement office filled with photos of his family and his charming wife. He didn't belong here, asking questions about her husband and her children.

She shouldn't be here. Not here, not with him, not alone, not this late at night, not like this. She couldn't even say that, because it would subsequently bring up all the reasons why she shouldn't be here, and that was just another list of things they couldn't (shouldn't, wouldn't) ever mention, so she simply said, "David..."

Was that  _wistfulness_  in her voice? He studied her again, but still, he couldn't even begin to imagine what she was thinking. How did she do it? How did she shutter the shades of her face to hold emotions without every betraying what those emotions actually  _were_?

Again, the telephone interrupted what could have been a wonderful and deep moment.

This time, Vanessa didn't even let him answer properly before launching into her litany, "David, do you have any idea how long I've been waiting? I had dinner ready  _hours_  ago. And you know I have to go to bed early tonight because my flight leaves at seven and you know I can't sleep without you next to me, and it's just not—"

"I know, bella," he tried to placate her. "I'm packing my things and heading home now."

Erin felt her stomach clench at his words.

 _Bella_. Gods, that was what he'd called her when he'd kissed her forehead so softly in the parking lot of a little bar in Seattle, the night that he touched her so tenderly and so deeply, that night that he—she couldn't finish the thought, and she couldn't stay there another minute as he unknowingly ripped her heart out with his teeth.

She cleared her throat again, catching his attention before gesturing that she was leaving. He sat up, motioning for her to stay just a moment longer, but she quietly shook her head and tapped her watch ( _I've got to go home, too_ ).

In the last five seconds, the mood in the room had changed into something off-kilter and heavier than the simple awkwardness of before, and although David couldn't quite pinpoint what it was, he knew that he didn't want Erin to leave on such a note. Still, she offered one last apologetic smile (there was something else dancing behind it, but he couldn't quite read it) as she silently slipped out of his office.

"Nessa, I'll be home soon," he interrupted the other woman, who was still whining about the fact that he wasn't home yet. He hung up, moving around his desk and trying to catch Erin before she disappeared.

He was too late. The little subterranean office was empty again. He considered bolting through the doors and towards the elevators to catch her, but he knew that she was long gone by now.

A day late and a dollar short. That's always how it was with Erin.

* * *

Erin bit her lip as she sagged against the wall, closing her eyes as she quietly tried to regain control of her own body, which had been such a traitor—she'd barely made it out of the BAU and into the hallway before for her damn knees began to quiver, as if they were going to give out completely. With another shaky step, she pushed herself off the wall and reached for the elevator button.

She should never have gone down there. She should never have listened to the little voice in her heart that had whispered,  _It won't hurt just to see him, just to say hello, just for a minute, just one little teensy second_.

She couldn't be jealous. She couldn't be angry at David for marrying another woman, for loving someone else, for moving on with his life—after all, she'd done just that (hadn't she?). He obviously viewed the night in Seattle with the same casualness as he did their other nights together, and she'd simply been too blind to notice it. And tonight, when he'd asked how she was doing, so softly and sweetly, she'd misinterpreted that, too, because he obviously cared very deeply for his wife (how could he not be entranced by that young thing, so exotic and thrilling and passionate and all the things that Erin was not and would never be?). She wanted him to be happy, but gods, she hadn't realized how painful his happiness would be for her. She'd never even known how desperately that she'd wanted to hear him speak to her the way that he'd spoken to his wife until she'd heard his voice change and shift with affection ( _he's never spoken to me like that, never has, never will_ ).

More than anything, Erin Strauss felt an overwhelming wave of panic building in her chest at the thought of what her reactions must mean. She couldn't. She shouldn't. She  _wouldn't_. She'd carve her own heart out and smash it into a thousand pieces before she could ever even think such a thing was possible. Perhaps she'd do that, just to punish the stupid little thing for thinking that nothing bad could come from being around David Rossi again.

_Well, fuck you, heart. You were wrong._

* * *

He returned to his office, packed his things and returned to the house just outside Woodbridge, where his sulky young wife proceeded to give him the silent treatment for the rest of the evening (though unfortunately not before she informed him of just how painful and heart-rendering his absence and lack of affection had been for her, for her delicate sensibilities and obvious needs).

She returned to her desk, grabbed her bags and drove to her home in Vienna, where her husband rather flatly informed her that their charming children had staged a bed-time mutiny and were refusing to go to sleep until they spent time with Mommy, to which she happily (albeit tiredly) obliged, making the rounds and spending a few minutes curled up with each child, talking quietly about their day and kissing their foreheads before tucking them in for the night.

As they both lay in their separate beds, with miles and secrets and other people and other choices between them, both staring up at the comfortingly blank ceiling, each silently wondered what life would be like if they had come home to someone else—to the person in their thoughts, the person with whom they'd spent a few strange quiet moments in tiny, stuffy office in the basement at Quantico. And both felt a heavy, nostalgic sadness at the realization that they'd never know the answer to such a bittersweet question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line "this is the way the world ends" is from T.S. Eliot's poem, The Hollow Men. It seemed doubly fitting, because the poem itself is about the 'hollow' men left behind after WWI (among other things), struggling to find meaning and a reason to continue in life, and as an American author, Eliot would've been someone that Erin studied for her American Literature degree.


	36. Bashert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second section of this chapter is dedicated to Annber03, who so wanted for Jordan and Spencer to become friends.

_"Important encounters are planned by the souls long before the bodies see each other."_

_~Paul Coelho._

* * *

**May 2013. Vienna, Virginia.**

"Not so fast, Mister. You have to call it, or else it doesn't count."

"Fine. Far left pocket."

David motioned to the pocket in question with his cue stick before returning his attention to the eight ball which was patiently waiting to help him and Christopher win the game of billiards that they were playing against Anna and Erin.

His blonde opponent moved to the far left pocket, made an X across the opening with her index finger and then knocked her knuckles twice on the spot.

Christopher groaned in response, "Aw, Mom, you didn't."

"I believe I did."

"What'd she do?" David was confused.

"She hexed it!" Anna gleefully informed him.

"Once Mom hexes a called pocket, you won't make the shot," Chris added.

"Are you serious?" David looked around the room incredulously. "Is the House of Strauss filled with a bunch of superstitious little wimps?"

"It's not superstition if it proves itself on a consistent basis," Erin reminded him with a slight arch of her brow.

"Oh, Sweet Jesus in Short-pants." David rolled his eyes.

"It's true, man," Chris insisted.

The older man simply shook his head as he turned back to his lover, "You've got these poor kids completely hoodwinked."

"Go ahead," she gave a small smirk. "Try to make the shot."

It was a straightforward shot, easy enough for a rookie to make. And yet, it bounced off the corner of the pocket, shooting back to the other side of the pool table.

Anna crowed in delight, "We  _told_  you, David!"

"That doesn't mean it's actually hexed—"

Chris gave him a pat on the back, shaking his head in feigned sympathy, "Just accept it, man. You're dating a witch."

"Christopher Paul Strauss—"

"I said  _witch_ , Mom, with a W—"

David was grinning, but Erin pointed at him with a stern glare, "And you, don't even add to that comment."

He pretended to be shocked by her insinuations, "As if I would ever think such a thing, my dear, sweet, gentle, darling…."

By now, his syrupy words had Chris and Anna laughing, and Erin tried to retain her disapproving scowl as she turned her attention back to the pool table. She and Anna still had three solids to sink before catching up to David and Chris—she sent the first one zipping into the furthest corner pocket, and then missed with the second.

Christopher stepped up, motioning to the middle pocket. "Front and center, calling it now."

Erin repeated her hex and her son shot her a baleful look.

"Really, Mother? Hexing your own child?" He tried to look pitiful and forlorn, and she merely laughed as she sidled up to David again.

"Hexes?" He said quietly, turning to look at her. The corner of her mouth curled into a sneaky grin, but she kept her eyes focused on the pool table.

"Well, I can't use all my powers for good," she gave a slight shrug of her shoulder.

Christopher missed the shot and Anna gave another whoop of delight.

"See?" The young girl turned back to David with a triumphant smile.

"Baby, there's none so blind as them that will not see," Erin informed her daughter, casting a taunting look at her lover.

Chris and Anna merely grinned at the statement as David rolled his eyes in response. Anna began plotting her move and Chris was standing next to her, whispering quietly, trying to psyche out his little sister. Since they were both distracted, David took the opportunity to move his hand to Erin's ass, giving it a quick squeeze. She lightly swatted her hand at his chest, a half-hearted reprimand which they both knew that she didn't mean.

Anna, who was probably the best pool shark out of the bunch, sank the remaining solids with ease.

By now, David had worked out a plan.

"Far right corner," he called the shot again, and Erin moved away from him, shooting him a challenging look as she hexed that corner as well.

"Play fair, Mom," Chris pleaded.

"Why? This way is so much more fun."

"I agree," David said, taking a moment to line up his shot. "Rules are meant to be broken."

It was that statement that made Erin's shoulders straighten, because she knew something was up. With one easy shot of the cue stick, David sent the eight ball bouncing against the farthest wall and back into the near left corner.

Now Chris was cheering, slapping him on the back.

"You didn't call that corner!" Erin retorted.

"Because you would've hexed it," he pointed out with wide-eyed innocence. "Besides, you said yourself that it's so much more fun when we don't play fair."

She narrowed her gaze at him, and he was certain that he would paying for that remark later on, in a much more intimate setting. And sadly, he actually relished the thought. Over the years, he'd always found Angry Erin intriguing or at least amusing, and nowadays, he'd found an even more appealing version called Angry Erin in Bed, an upgraded and even more enjoyable playmate.

"I agree with Mom," Anna stated.

"Of course you do—you don't want to lose," Chris retorted.

His younger sister took a moment to give him a hard stare (looking so much like her mother that it was uncanny) before speaking in a thick Southern drawl, "Then it looks like we've got ourselves a grudge match."

Erin glanced at the clock on the wall, "Grudge match will have to be postponed. It's getting late and some of us actually have day jobs."

"Tomorrow then?" Chris turned to David with a hopeful expression. "You'll be here tomorrow night, too, right?"

"If I'm not called out on a case," David promised. With a wry grin, he glanced over at Erin, "And if your mother's wounded pride doesn't kick me out."

"Ah, we'll just annoy her until she lets you back in," Chris gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "It always worked with the dog."

Erin laughed at this, "What a very apt comparison, Christopher."

The look she gave David sent the rest of her unspoken message ( _because you certainly are in the doghouse, Mr. Rossi_ ).

"Jordan will be back tomorrow," David pointed out. "We'll be uneven."

"She can just play on the girls' team." Chris shrugged, taking everyone's cue sticks and placing them back on the rack.

"But then we'll be at a disadvantage," the older man stated.

Chris and Anna exchanged humorous glances before bursting into laughter.

"Jordan isn't exactly a very adept pool player," Erin informed him with a grin.

"Trust me,  _they'll_  be the ones at a disadvantage," Chris was still chuckling.

There was a faint beeping from the other side of the house, and Erin disappeared—David knew by now that it was the dryer, signaling that another load of laundry was finished drying (he found an odd sense of comfort in all the little things he knew, like how the dryer sounded and how the upstairs pipes rattled and what book was on Erin's nightstand and how the newspaper boy had horrible aim and how lovely the backyard was in the early morning when they went outside to sip their coffee in peaceful silence).

Before the rules of their relationship were changed last year, David had tried not to think about their lives together, because there really hadn't been much togetherness—just working on cases and the occasional brief hotel room hook-ups, nothing more. Though he had to admit that there had been a few (very, very rare) times when he'd actually wondered what life with Erin would be like—life that was something more than what they'd been, more than what they'd allowed themselves to be.

Now he knew the answer, on some level. He knew how it felt to pull into the driveway and see her car already waiting, or to have her seated next to him, smiling softly in relief ( _another day done, another battle survived_ ). He knew the warm feeling of sanctuary that he felt walking into the kitchen when it was brimming with smells and sounds and smiling faces, how it felt to hear the chorus of greetings from the kids or the gentle look from Erin that silently informed him that she'd missed him, even though she'd spent most of the day so close to him (but not close enough, not close in the way that she wanted to be). He knew the simple luxury of whiling away the evening playing a game of pool, joking and laughing and hexing.

He liked to imagine, just for a second, that this was some alternate universe, the world of should-have-been, and he liked what he saw—a home full of laughter and love, with daughters that looked like her and a son that looked like him, rooms with little pieces of their life together, photo albums and souvenirs and quilts sewn by grandmothers and other soft, intangible emotions floating through the spaces in-between.

Parts of that world were still true in this world. He was content with that. With a round of hugs and playful goodnights, he left Anna and Chris curled up in the den, watching some late-night talk show, and he went in search of his lover, who was quietly folding the laundry, humming something that sounded like a lullaby. Again, that was a little thing whose knowledge filled him with joy (although,  _dear God_ , she was arranging the folded towels by color, a sure sign that the stress of the Replicator was truly wearing on her). And despite the fact that her little color-coding exercise was slightly alarming, he also liked knowing that he could read all of her tells, even the ones that signaled her distress—she'd always done that, arranged things by color or alphabetically (or both), from pens to books to packets of sugar at restaurant tables.

"Since you know you're in trouble, one would think that you would at least try to be more helpful, in an effort to expiate your sins," she didn't even turn around, didn't break the almost rhythmic pace that she'd developed from years' worth of repeating this exact same task.

"How'd you know I was standing here?"

"Perhaps you're not as sneaky as you think you are, Mr. Rossi." Her tone was dry, laced with amusement.

He grinned, returning to the previous matter at hand, "Perhaps I don't want to expiate my sins. Perhaps I want to suffer the full consequences of my actions."

"Ah, yes. I forgot you were a tried and true Catholic."

He laughed at the retort, moving forward as she turned to face him with a sly smile. She handed him a stack of neatly folded towels, rising onto her tip-toes to kiss his smiling mouth.

She didn't have to tell him that particular stack of towels went in the upstairs bathroom, because he knew that each bathroom had its own color scheme and corresponding towels (this was another small thing, another proof that he truly knew every little nuance of life with Erin), and he liked that, liked how they had reached a level that didn't need explanations, because they simply knew.

"Do you really want to know how I knew you were standing in the doorway?" She asked, her tone dipping lower, filling with the softness of adoration and emotion.

"Of course," he answered simply, slightly taken aback by her sudden rush of sweetness.

"My skin tells me. It always has, almost as long as I've known you." She looked down at his arms, lightly trailing her fingers across his own skin with something akin to reverence. "I've never been able to explain it. It just does. Every time."

He needed to amend a previous mental statement about Angry Erin being his favorite version. This Erin, the one with the glowing cheeks and smiling eyes and voice so filled with passion,  _this_  was his ultimate favorite, the version that used to be so elusive, almost unattainable, but which appeared so much more frequently nowadays, the one the seemed to stop the entire world with a single touch, a simple sigh, the tiniest of words.

He gently shifted the towels in his arms, so that he could take Erin's hand in his own, bringing it to his mouth and bestowing a tender kiss against her skin. She blinked, almost as if she'd been struck by a jolt of electricity, and he saw the muscles in her throat tighten as he slowly rotated her hand again, placing another kiss on her palm. The pads of her fingertips lightly brushed his cheek in response, but the rest of her body remained utterly still as she let him impart his tokens of affection on her skin, the skin that had always recognized him, the skin that had always called out for his touch, long before it actually knew its sensation.

"Every time?" He asked huskily, entranced by this new knowledge, by the woman standing before him.

She simply nodded, because right now his lips were on her wrist, their softness a juxtaposition to the rough prickle of his goatee, which sent fire rippling down her arm and into the furthest reaches of her being, and all power of speech escaped her.

"Every time," she finally managed to speak again.

"Even when we were fighting like cats and dogs?" He couldn't help but tease, and she grinned in response.

"Even then. Especially then." She pulled him into another kiss before moving away again, "Go put away the towels, please. I'll deal with you later."

He grinned the promise, though his expression softened when he looked back down at the color-coded cloths.

"That bad, bella?" He asked quietly, motioning to the towels.

She was caught off-guard by the sudden change in tone, but she nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat as she admitted, "Yep, that bad."

"He's safe, bella."

"I know."

"You and me, we'll protect him."

"I know." She stepped forward again, offering a small smile of reassurance. "It doesn't stop me from worrying, but I know."

She took a moment to stare up at him, her face and voice so deadly serious as she added, "I don't think I'd be able to do this without you."

"I'd never want you to do this without me," he admitted softly, leaning forward to kiss the top of her head. "We're gonna get through this, bella. We've got everything we need, and we're gonna beat this bastard."

She smiled up at him again, her hand lightly tracing the outline of his face as she nodded in agreement. He turned his head, giving her fingertips one last kiss before heading for the door.

As if he'd just remembered something, he turned back to her, and the twinkle in those dark eyes immediately told her that game was afoot, though he put on his most austere expression as he seriously intoned, "When I'm done with all these chores, I do think we need to take a little time to explore this whole skin-tingling theory you've got going here."

"Do you, now?" She arched her brow playfully. "And is that your professional opinion, Mr. Rossi?"

"Oh, no ma'am," he shook his head. "What I have in mind for you is completely unprofessional."

She gave a feigned look of shock at his insinuation, and he merely winked in response before disappearing. Biting her lip as she smiled in anticipation, Erin returned to the task at hand, her skin already humming with the promise of things to come.

That was something that could definitely be said about life with David—it was never without spark or feeling (regardless of whether was feeling was closer to adoration or aggravation), and she never felt anything less than vividly alive in his presence.

She thought that perhaps her soul and her skin had known this long before her head and her heart, perhaps the part of her that had been before all else (before her  _essence_ , as Sartre would say) had been quietly and patiently waiting for that same part of him, perhaps her spirit had sensed the journey to be shared between them long before the first step had even been taken.

What a beautiful, delicious concept. A shiver danced down her spine as she felt the solid weight of  _knowing_  settle into her stomach. Maybe she'd lied when she had said that she couldn't explain the feeling he'd always inspired in her—maybe she could explain, just not in the way that her logical, pragmatic mind usually worked.

Whatever she'd felt towards David, in all its shades and tones and conflicting intricacies, it had always been beyond the realm of logic, beyond definition and quantification. It was a thing that passed all understanding of the mind, but something that her heart seemed to comprehend without any difficulty at all.

_Across the mountaintops, I saw you, and my heart flew across the desert to your hands, my soul went out to you, and I remembered your name because I loved you...before I knew you, before I knew anything at all, I loved you._

* * *

**Washington, D.C.**

There were four days remaining in the countdown. Four. Days.

That thought was on constant loop in Spencer Reid's highly-developed brain as he walked through the halls of the National Museum of Crime and Punishment. Of course, it was really less than four days, because night had fallen and day four was winding to a close. There had been nothing new to report, though the team had stayed busy with consult cases and action reports and other insanely unimportant things. Still, the director had been very clear in not allowing the Replicator case to take precedence over the operation of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, which meant they had to follow orders.

"Dr. Reid!" A familiar voice called out, and he whirled around to see Jordan Strauss moving through the crowd towards him, with a determined gait that mimicked her mother's.

"And so we meet again," she gave a knowing grin, as if she wasn't that surprised. This time, all of her tattoos were concealed and she looked more grown up and reserved.

"You're here for the exhibit opening?" He guessed, motioning down the hall.

She nodded, "I work at the National Museum for Women in the Arts, so I try to make nice by attending all the other museum events. Good way to network."

"You work at a museum?" His interest was immediately piqued (then the saint around her neck was certainly Bede, which made sense). "What do you do?"

"Cataloguing new pieces and general exhibit prep," she answered casually. "We're a little short-staffed at the moment, so I wear a few different hats."

She motioned to a poster on the wall, which advertised the current event. "I'm guessing you're the real-live FBI Agent they're promising us."

He nodded, "They didn't put my name on the posters because I wasn't sure that I'd actually be here for the event, in which case they would have to send a replacement."

"Oh," her expression became serious. "I just assumed that it was because they didn't want to raise a red flag for the guy who's been after the team."

"I don't think the director has much qualms about placing me in harm's way," he admitted, immediately realizing that he probably shouldn't be sharing such insights with her.

She seemed to read him mind, because the corner of her mouth quirked in amusement, "Yeah, he's not my mother's favorite person right now, either."

Wisely steering to safer ground, Spencer asked, "Do you really think that it's a good idea for you to be out in the general public with the Replicator on the loose?"

She gave a slight shrug, "He's not after me. Besides, I'm standing next to a guy with a gun, who also is being shadowed by more guys with guns, in a building that's already swarming with security agents. I think I'm good."

He obviously didn't approve of her nonchalance, but he didn't respond. She started walking down the hall again, and he fell into step beside her. She felt the need to explain, "I've spent the past week and a half living under my mother's roof or crashing on my dad's couch. It has reminded me exactly why I promised I'd never move back in with my parents after I graduated college. And the commute messes with my schedule, and my plants need me—"

"Your plants?" Spencer seemed amused by that statement.

"Orchids," she supplied with a curt nod. "Supposedly one of the most temperamental plants to maintain, but strangely they're the only ones that I can keep alive. I've killed cacti; I've overwatered herbs and underwatered hyacinth, but gods know, I've kept my orchids alive for years now. It somehow makes sense for me, I think."

He nodded, because somehow, it made sense to him, too—the same way Penelope Garcia's unwavering faith in humanity made sense, despite all that she'd been through.

"Anyways," she sighed, returning to the topic at hand. "I'm tired of letting some phantom menace dictate and disrupt my life, especially since I'm pretty sure that's exactly what gets him off, showing how powerful he is to the rest of us mere mortals."

Spencer shot her a surprised look, and she grinned again, "I might have read all of David's books on profiling. I know just enough to be dangerous. An armchair profiler, if you will."

He shared her smile, suddenly understanding. He tucked his hands in his pockets as he surmised, "So, in defiance, you are returning to your normal routine."

"Is that a bad thing?" She looked up at him, her green eyes filled with concern.

"I don't know," the young doctor admitted. "I would think that since you're not an intended target, you're safe, but to be perfectly honest, I'm not really comfortable making such assumptions, given the possible outcome of such a situation."

She took a beat to simply look at him, this strange boy with his odd speech pattern and quick hand movements, so obviously brilliant and slightly-out-of-place in the world, and then she gave a soft smile as she agreed, "I suppose you're right, Dr. Reid. I should be more careful."

"Please, call me Spencer."

Her grin deepened at the small offer of friendship, and she nodded again as they continued their journey down the hallway. Silence reigned between them (though the hallway was still filled with so many people, laughing and talking and shuffling around), but it was not uncomfortable. Neither felt the need to fill the air with words, so they didn't.

They entered a large conference room, where chairs had been set up for Spencer's lecture. With one last encouraging smile, Jordan waved him towards the podium, "Well, good luck, or break a leg, or whatever you're supposed to say to someone who's giving a speech."

He smiled as well, giving a slight, awkward wave as he left her behind, "Thanks. I'll...we'll catch up afterwards?"

There was an adorable hopefulness in his words (Spencer Reid did not seem like the type of person to have many friends, and truth be told, neither did Jordan), and she couldn't help but smile as she nodded, "Sure. We can tour the exhibit together."

Another small smile, another quick gesture, and Dr. Reid carried on, towards the museum staff at the podium. Jordan took a moment to observe him, an amused smile dancing on her features. He was different, in a way that was both intriguing and sad, in a way that she understood and empathized with.

It was funny that they both seemed to view each other in the same light—as strange creatures, adults with so many childish attributes, uncertain and yet so hopeful. They recognized that in one another, in the way that Anne Shirley recognized her kindred spirit in Diana Barry. Despite the fact that they were relative strangers, they had the capability to fulfill a fundamental need in each other's life.

Spencer used to feel that way with Emily (he still did, though she wasn't the constant presence in his life that she used to be), because from the moment they had met, he'd immediately understood that Emily Prentiss was used to being the odd-kid-out, the one who simply stayed on the sidelines, too afraid to reach out for friends because she feared being misunderstood.

Of all his team members past and present, Emily was probably the closest to Spencer in personality and intelligence. Though her IQ wasn't nearly as high as his, she did rate as a high Superior on the Binet Scale, so in some ways, she knew the feeling of being surrounded by people who didn't quite understand her, of feeling as if she couldn't communicate on the same level as others without sounding like a computer or an overbearing ass or some female parody of  _The Big Bang Theory_. She had been better socialized (though her mother had been even more distant than Spencer's), so she was better at masking herself in the cloak of normalcy (Emily had been like a chameleon that way, changing hue and tone to match her surroundings, an odd survival technique that had served her well in life). Still, underneath her ever-changing skin lay a soul that was remarkably similar to his own.

He missed her. He missed walking down the street with her, her long strides matching his own, both quietly comfortable with each other's presence, both softly secure in the knowledge that the person next to them was a true friend, a deep friend, one who understood them perhaps better than anyone else.

He saw pieces of Emily in Jordan Strauss. No one could ever completely replace Emily (and he would never want anyone to), but there were enough elements, enough points of connection between the two women—the dry wit, the quick intelligence, the random assortment of mundane miscellaneous knowledge to ensure interesting conversation, the little signs of compassion and the undercurrent of empathy.

No, Jordan couldn't replace Emily. But she could still be a good friend, a companion to drag along to foreign films and museum exhibits, to debate Kafka and Sartre over coffee, to actually listen with interest to the origins of this archaic word or that odd holiday.

He glanced back to see his newest candidate for friendship sitting quietly next to someone else, who was whispering, using his hands to illustrate some concept or point. The corners of her mouth were turned down in an expression that signaled she was truly listening and concentrating on her companion's words, her arms crossed over her chest as she occasionally gave a small nod to show that she was still following the train of thought (she looked nothing like her mother, but she mimicked her expressions and movements in a way that was almost unsettling).

As if she sensed his gaze, her eyes flicked up to meet his across the room, her expression remaining completely unchanged, though she gave a quick wink, as if they had some inside joke (except Spencer wasn't sure what that joke was). Maybe it was simply a silent gesture of goodwill, since one of the museum staff was stepping up to the podium, letting the audience know that it was time to simmer down and introducing their guest speaker, Dr. Spender Reid of the FBI.

Spencer stepped up to the microphone, offering a small smile to the sea of faces staring back at him as he thanked the curator for the introduction.

He hated giving speeches like this, hated feeling like he was back in school, forced to give a book report to a classroom full of people who bullied him on a regular basis. Still, it was a chance to share his knowledge, and that was something he did enjoy (how could you not love learning new things, or helping others learn new things?).

His first joke to break the ice fell a little flat. This only increased his nervousness (he had no authority here, they didn't respect his opinion or his qualifications the way other agents and law enforcement officers generally did, they simply saw him as a scrawny kid in a crooked tie who couldn't possibly be a  _real_  FBI agent). He sought out the one familiar face in the crowd—Jordan's. She simply stared back for a beat before slowly letting her big green eyes wander inwardly, crossing them in a comical fashion. She was trying to make him feel more comfortable, and although it didn't really work, the camaraderie behind her gesture was still very much appreciated.

He gave a grateful smile as he continued. Before his gaze wandered to across the audience, he saw a brief smile flash across her face as well.

She wasn't Emily. They weren't even really friends yet.

But it was a start, and it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concept of a bashert is basically the Yiddish version of the soulmate. However, the word itself simply means "destiny"—the belief is that your bashert is preordained (your bashert is chosen 40 days before you are born), and whether or not your relationship works out, that person will always be the only one who is perfectly created to match and suit you. Although the connection between these two preordained souls is usually seen as a romantic one, the word bashert can be used to describe 'destined' events, situations, or close, instant friendships (the ones L.M. Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables would call your "kindred spirit and bosom friend").


	37. The Game of Kings

_"Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin."_

_~The Book of Daniel._

* * *

**March 2012. Vienna, Virginia.**

It was strange, being home after being away for so long. It looked the same, and yet it felt different. The air felt weird in her lungs, like it was weighted with something, and it even smelled different.

Erin shut the back hatch of her crossover, taking a second to look over her shoulder, through the open garage door and out at the quiet street. Home. This was home. She was home. After fourteen weeks at the Riverview Treatment Center, she was finally home.

Paul gently took the handle of Erin's luggage, moving towards the garage door without even glancing back to make sure that she was coming.

"Thank you," she said quietly, though she didn't think that he heard her. She followed him, softly and unbalanced, feeling as if she were walking underwater. He'd been very quiet on the drive from the center—there was so much to talk about, so much to decide and discuss, and it was all too much to handle, so they simply didn't talk about anything at all.

Her children were on the other side of that innocuous-looking door, and that simple knowledge was enough to fill her stomach with the deepest sense of dread. They had visited her several times while she was in treatment, but she'd tried to keep them away—not because she didn't want to see them, but because she didn't want them to see her (they were still just babes, still too young and fragile, they shouldn't have to see her like that, shouldn't have to know what it was like to sit in the cold antiseptic lobby and wait for a ten-minute meeting with their own mother). And since she hadn't seen them very often, she had realized that she had no idea what their reaction would be whenever she finally returned home.

They knew that she was an alcoholic. They knew that she had fallen from grace on a scale of epic proportions. They knew that their parents were in the process of divorcing. They knew that her alcoholism was certainly a factor in that situation. For the past fourteen weeks, they'd been forced to survive on their own, because Mommy was too irresponsible to take care of herself and too selfish to contemplate the ramifications of her actions and had to be locked away in a drink tank. How could they ever forgive her for failing them like this? How could she ever  _expect_  them to forgive her?

She didn't. She didn't expect their forgiveness, and she didn't deserve it. Of all her accomplishments, of all the things she'd done in life, Erin Strauss had always felt that her deepest and best were those three shining lights that fate had decreed would be hers to keep and guide—and now she had to live with the crippling realization that she'd failed them, she'd failed at this awesome and weighty task in so many ways and on so many levels.

She felt sick, but she knew that she couldn't avoid this moment any longer, so she took another shaky breath and entered the house which suddenly seemed so distant and unfamiliar.

The three pieces of her heart were standing quietly in the kitchen, lined up like some modern-day version of the von Trapp children, all tight-lipped and nervous-eyed as they waited for her to make the first move.

It was painful, standing only a few feet away and yet knowing there was a huge unspoken gulf between them—all of the amends and apologies that she needed to make, all of the words she needed to say that could never truly heal the damage she'd caused, all of the wounds that would never fully disappear.

She didn't know what else to say, so she simply stated, "I'm home."

With a sudden sob of relief, Anna launched into her arms—the simple solidness of holding her daughter again was enough to bring tears to Erin's eyes as well.

 _There_. That was home. Anna's head on her shoulder, Chris and Jordan hugging her as well, as they all murmured how much they'd missed her and how happy they were for her to finally be home.

She didn't deserve this. Then again, she'd loved her own mother, who had also been just as undeserving of her children's love. Elaine was the very reason that Erin had been so petrified of being a mother in the first place—she had never wanted to put any other child through the strange and unknowing hell that she'd experienced growing up (because even now, at age fifty-three, Erin Strauss still couldn't comprehend her mother, or even classify her relationship with the woman who'd been gone for almost ten years), and when Jordan was born, Erin had held that unbelievably tiny and achingly perfect child and had fiercely promised that her daughter would never know the pain and disappointment that Erin had always felt with her own mother.

She'd made that promise to each of her progeny, had sworn to heaven above that she would never hurt them, that she would kill anyone, destroy anything that ever tried to bring them pain or harm. And yet, without even trying, without even realizing it, she'd done the one thing that she'd feared doing ever since she was old enough to contemplate having children of her own.

Suddenly, Erin Elaine Breyer Strauss understood her mother on a level that she had never before. It was a total gamble, having children—a promise you could never truly keep, a commitment that you could never break, a decision that you could never fully comprehend until after you made it, until after it was too late. So you did what you could with what you had, and you understood that mistakes would be made and scars would be left, and you just had to pray that the damage was something that your children were strong enough to overcome.

Her children were Breyers. They were strong, stronger than she gave them credit for. And they loved her, despite her many flaws and failings, despite the fact that she did not deserve a single ounce of their love.

She was sobbing now, telling them how sorry she was, and they were trying to tell her that they loved her, that they forgave her, which only made her cry even harder.

Finally, the tears subsided enough for them to all take a step back, and then they were laughing shakily at their own disheveled appearances.

Paul had disappeared, so Jordan took charge, wrapping her arm around her mother as she quietly pronounced, "C'mon, you need to rest."

"No, no, I'm fine," Erin offered a reassuring smile. She reached for Chris' hand and gave it a squeeze before wrapping her arm around Anna. "I just need to be with you guys. I've…I've missed you all so much."

There were more tears at her admission, and her children melted towards her, enveloping her in a hug again.

"You do need a shower, though," Anna informed her. "You smell like that weird hospital smell."

Erin started laughing, "Ah, there's the charming daughter I know and love."

The others grinned at the quip. Erin stepped back, looking around for her bags, "I'm not sure…."

"Dad's staying in my old room," Jordan informed her. Suddenly, she became nervous again, looking to Christopher for some kind of support as she continued, "He's…he's looking for an apartment, but the counselor had mentioned that he would probably need to stay here for a few weeks, just to make sure…to help you…."

"Yes, we've discussed it," Erin assured her, taking a deep breath. "I just…it's an adjustment."

Her three beautiful children nodded solemnly, and again she felt a wave of self-loathing for what she'd put them through, for what she was continuing to put them through.

Jordan seemed to read her thoughts, because she simply rubbed her mother's shoulders reassuringly, "Go take a nice, hot shower. We'll finish dinner."

"Dinner? You cooked?"

"Your favorite," Christopher pronounced dryly. "You better know we love you, if we're willing risk life and limb by letting Anna around an open flame."

"Hey!" His little sister cuffed him on the shoulder. "I'm a good cook."

"Sure you are," he returned easily. "When you aren't busy being a good pyromaniac."

Anna didn't reply, but rather shot him a dark look of mostly-feigned anger. Erin laughed again, feeling that she was truly home, now that her children were sparring again. Deciding to take her eldest daughter's advice, she disappeared into the master bedroom.

Paul was sitting on the edge of the bed, his red-rimmed eyes informing her that he'd overheard the tearful reunion in the kitchen.

"I…I thought it was best, not to ruin the moment," he spoke quietly, and her heart broke for this man, this man who felt like a stranger in his own home, in the home that they'd built together, in the place they'd filled with so many sweet and tender memories.

"I'm sorry," she said, because really, that was the only thing to say. "I don't want you to feel like….I don't want you to feel this way, because of me."

She moved to the bedside, gingerly lowering to her knees so that she could look up into those blue eyes she knew so well. She gently reached for him, cupping the side of his face with her hand, "I'm so sorry, Paul."

"I know," he answered simply, turning away from her touch to look out the window. She lowered her hand, letting it float just above his knee (she didn't want to touch him, feared shattering him in some way). His voice filled with emotion as he quietly asked, "How did we get this way, Erin?"

"I don't know," she replied, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"Me either," he admitted wearily. He looked down again, at her hand that still bore the ring he'd given her for their twenty-fifth anniversary. He gave a bittersweet smile as he held out his own left hand, which also still wore a ring. "I guess we're both waiting for the right time to let go."

After everything, this man was still standing beside her, still trying to save her, still trying to care for her, still putting his own life on hold because she still needed him, because he still wanted to be her friend and protector and all the things that he'd been for so long.

Life wasn't fucking fair. For the first time, Erin was grateful for that—because if life were truly just and fair, then she would be alone, and yet, here she was, still surrounded by people who loved her, who sacrificed so much for her.

"I never wanted this for you," she told him, her voice shaking with unshed tears.

"I know." He gave a small sigh, because deep down, he knew that it was true—Erin had never asked him to give so much, to go so far, because it had always been something he'd given so freely, because it had always been his choice, his and his alone. It wasn't always the best choice, but it was still his. It was the codependent foundation upon which their life together had been built, and he couldn't deny that anymore.

She looked down at their hands again. That little ring of gold around his finger had kept him here for so long, had taken so much joy and happiness away from him, had forced him into being someone and something that he'd never wanted to be for so many years.

It was time to set him free.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, she spoke again, breaking the stillness, "I think…maybe…maybe we should do this together. We put them on together, maybe we should take them off together."

He gave a small nod, his voice barely audible as he agreed, "I think that's a good idea."

With trembling fingers, they each took off their band. Paul held open his hand, and she dropped the ring into his palm. He gently set them on the edge of the bed, and they both stared at the simple little pieces of jewelry for a long, quiet moment.

So much history, so many promises, so many thoughts and emotions and failings, contained in those seemingly-insignificant bands. And now all those things were simply to be put aside, the game called on account of rain, the story ending on a sad, plain, quiet note.

"I think…I think we did well," she gave a small sniff, suddenly overcome with emotion at the simple sight of those two rings, still sitting side-by-side.

"We did, Erin." He agreed warmly. "We tried."

"We did."

This knowledge did not stop the sob rising in her chest, and she quickly clamped her hand over her mouth to smother the sound.

Paul turned to her, his face lined with concern. She pushed back the tears as she simply shook her head, "I just…I never thought….I never thought it would end this way."

"I know." He did know, because he never thought it would end like this, either.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth, quietly, gently, chastely, so bittersweet and nostalgic. She smiled softly against his lips, understanding and accepting this little token of forgiveness, this final farewell of what they had been.  _We put these rings on together, we take them off together. We started this journey with a kiss, we end it with a kiss_.

They had tried, they had fought, and for a while, they had won. They had created a life together, they had raised three children and had shared a thousand moments of knowing and understanding, and yet, it wasn't enough.

It simply wasn't enough.

* * *

After dinner, Erin had sat in the huge bed, which suddenly seemed much too large and much too cold for just one person, and she'd almost melted with relief when Jordan had padded into the room, not even offering an explanation as she slipped under the covers and snuggled closer to her mother, placing her head on Erin's shoulder as Erin kissed her forehead, like she'd done so many times over the past twenty-two years. Pretty soon, Anna was in there, too, bringing Constantine the family cat with her, and then Christopher joined them, sitting on the edge of the bed as they stayed up late into the night, regaling their mother with all of the adventures she'd missed during her absence.

The next morning, Erin awoke to find Constantine staring directly into her face as he sat on her chest, with Jordan and Anna curled up on either side of her, and Chris still asleep at the foot of the bed. And for the first time in a very long time, she truly felt happy.

There was still a big bad world waiting for her, just outside her door—Andrew was getting worse, she still had to face the repercussions of her actions with the Bureau, she still had to learn the steps to this awkward and uncertain new dance with Paul, there were still so many miles to go on her journey to recovery, but oh, this moment was worth the pain and angst and fear of all those other things.

This. This was enough.

* * *

**July 2012. New York City, New York.**

This time, John Curtis had not been surprised to see Alex Blake's name in the FBI brief, which announced the newest addition to the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico.

His hunch had been right—Emily Prentiss had left the BAU directly after the Lady X case, and the next week, another short list had been issued. Again, his name was not on the list ( _lost your last chance, Strauss_ ), and Alex Blake's was ( _the most logical choice…years of dedication and experience_ ). There were a few weeks of general red-tape bureaucracy, and then Supervisory Special Agent Alex Blake was officially announced as the latest addition to the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico, Virginia.

And although he'd seen this one coming, nothing had softened the heavy blow of reality at the simple fact that John Curtis had just lost his final chance at the recognition and appreciation that he'd spent his entire life trying to achieve.

So here he was, back in the place where it all started—New York City, his own personal Waterloo.

He didn't have a specific agenda; he just felt the need to be here, to walk the streets and let his mind wander down paths and through valleys in which he'd walked a thousand times. It was like some strange, mournful funeral march, some final farewell to all the promise and splendor that his life had once held, to all that was taken away (no, it wasn't  _lost_ , because that would imply some mistake on his part, some ineptitude or inattentiveness, as if he were just walking along the street one day and dropped it, when all along it had been stolen from him, taken by  _force_ ), to all that would never be, simply because Erin Strauss had been too weak and too selfish to stand beside them in the end.

 _Fidelity. Bravery. Integrity_. Obviously Erin didn't have the moral tenacity to be a true member of the Bureau.

John had already decided that he was going to make them all pay for their sins against him—their sins of forgetfulness, of pride and self-preservation, of willful ignorance and cheap, petty politics, of being so self-absorbed that they couldn't even notice him, even when he was walking among them. They were all going to notice, soon enough. They were going to remember, and they were going to realize their egregious mistake, and they were going to fall to their knees, begging for forgiveness. He just wasn't sure  _how_  he was going to exact his pound of flesh.

He sat down on an iron-wrought bench, taking a moment to observe his surroundings. It was the typical asphalt jungle of so many run-down neighborhoods—the well-worn basketball court, the chain-link fence, the little metal table and folding metal chairs. At the table sat an old man and a much younger boy, both focused on a beautifully carved chess set, which seemed out of place in the impoverished settings.

Obviously, the boy was just learning the game, because he was tapping each piece as he recited, "Rook, queen's knight, queen's bishop, queen..."

John smiled softly at the familiar exercise—it had been decades since his own grandfather had taught him the game, but he found something oddly comforting in hearing all these basic concepts again.

"Good," the old man gave a curt nod of approval whenever the boy finished his litany. "Now, rank them according to power."

"King, queen, rook, knight, bishop—"

"Bishop, then knight."

"But knights can move more."

"Movement isn't always power, son. Knights and bishops start out with relatively the same value, and it's a rookie mistake to think that just because the knight can move more freely, then it's somehow more powerful. Knights are useful, but when it gets to the endgame, you want a bishop. They can influence both wings at the same time, and they can pin other pieces and even hinder knights. For example, your bishop can put other pieces in a zugzwang, which is something your knight can never do."

Something prickled across the back of John Curtis' brain. Of course, he had to plot a revenge that didn't just strike once at the BAU—it had to be something well-planned, a slow and intricate dance, something that pulled the team through their own mire, something that allowed them time to reflect on their actions, something that showed the rest of the world just how superior his intellect was. Something like a chess match.

"Zugzwang?" The young boy looked at the old man in confusion.

 _Zugzwang_. The word popped like a shattering light-bulb in John's brain. Yes, yes, it  _had_  to be exactly that—he had to force the team into a position where every move they made filled them with dread, because they knew that every move they made only weakened them, only conceded more power to the man who would be their greatest rival and ultimately their conqueror.

John Curtis was too logical to believe in God. However, he did believe in a sense of destiny, though it came from a much more practical place. Some people were so gifted, so intelligent, so uniquely qualified, that they were destined to achieve certain things. Through no fault of his own, his destiny had been subverted (to the intellectual wasteland of Kansas, that Stygian swamp where his talents and abilities had been left to wither and die), but it had actually provided him with a greater chance of garnering the recognition that his superiority so richly deserved.

In hindsight, he realized that his dream of joining the BAU had been an unlofty goal, a consummation far below his own ability. He was too brilliant to simply sit behind a desk, to be a part of a rag-tag team of profilers, to be forced into sharing glory, to spend the rest of his life capturing people who were less intelligent and yet who would garner more fame and attention than any work he could do as a Bureau analyst. No, he was meant to stand alone, to rise above, to  _win_.

Destiny had led him here, to this moment in this shabby little cement lot, to the old man and the young boy quietly talking about the game of kings, to the final puzzle piece in his quest for the perfect revenge upon his unwitting enemies.

The handwriting was on the wall now, and nothing could undo this edict written by the hand of the God in whom John Curtis didn't even believe, written by those who thought they were decreeing John's fate when really they were writing their own life's verdict.

_You have been counted, you have been weighed and measured, and you have been found wanting. Your kingdom is divided and given to your enemy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Curtis' final thought ("You have been counted...found wanting...") is a loose translation of Daniel 5:26-28, in which the prophet Daniel interprets the writing on the wall (mene, mene, tekel, upharsin) for Belshazzar. Also, it's very similar to the phrase used by Adhemar in "A Knight's Tale". Just FYI.  
> Also, I know absolutely NOTHING about chess, so every chess-related thing you read is simply from research. Apologies in advance if I misinterpret it.


	38. The Inevitability of the Improbable

_"She is silent with her eyes downcast; she has left her home behind her, from her home has come that wailing in the wind. But the stars are singing the love-song of the eternal to a face sweet with shame and suffering. The door has been opened in the lonely chamber, the call has sounded, and the heart of the darkness throbs with awe because of the coming tryst."_

_~Rabindranath Tagore._

* * *

**May 2012. Washington, D.C.**

Even as a child, Erin Elaine Breyer Strauss possessed a strange fascination for playing with fire. She and Peter used to have contests, holding their fingers over candles and seeing how long they could stand the heat. Whenever they were teenagers, she'd do this at bonfires, and even now, decades later, she still occasionally zipped her finger across an open flame, just to know she still had that daringness in her.

Over the years, she had learned that some fires were metaphorical, and she'd also learned that she still held the same attraction to seeing just how long she could withstand the flames.

Which was exactly what she was doing right now. She was currently seated in the lobby of a lovely hotel, with its white-washed walls and deep crimson carpeting and Jacquard-weave upholstered furniture with polished cherry wood legs, just a few yards away from the dimly-lit hotel bar, which was already humming with the soft sounds of conversation, though it was barely after five o'clock.

If she could last here for another thirty minutes, then she'd slip into the bar itself, sit in a corner booth without ordering a drink, and simply soak in the atmosphere. Whenever the pounding need for just one more drink finally started knocking at the back of her head, she'd get up and leave.

It was a dangerous game, especially with so much to lose, especially with so much that had been fought for and won, but it was something to prove that she was still strong in some ways, something to prove that she still had some kind of control, something that required every ounce of her concentration and determination, which made it a welcome distraction from her current reality.

She'd been back at the Bureau for weeks now, and they still weren't letting her work—sure, they'd given her reports to file and transfers to approve and other little pieces of paper to keep her busy, but she still hadn't been allowed to return to full status or oversee any current cases or do any of the things that she was actually  _qualified_  to do. It was frustrating and a complete waste of time and resources, but she knew that this was simply part of her penance, the things she must do to re-prove herself. But gods above, hadn't she jumped through enough hoops by now?

She knew the answer—yes, she had, but she'd forfeited all those past accomplishments the instant she had stepped out of Derek Morgan's truck and onto the parking lot of the Riverview Treatment Center five months ago.

She actually didn't miss alcohol as much as she thought she would—not mentally, at least, because her body still physically ached with feelings of withdrawal from time to time, although those instances were becoming fewer and farther between.

She did, however, miss being in bars. There was something deliciously comforting about slipping into a low-lit room, seeing her own skin change hue and tone under the blues and greens and reds of the neon lights, settling back into a well-worn seat and allowing herself to simply absorb the generally subdued energy around her, the soft intonation of conversation, the occasional warm laughter, the solid tap of well-weighted tumblers on the bar and the light musicality of beer bottles clinking together. There was something relaxing about moving through the haze of cigarette smoke and feeling as if she were passing into another world, her own version of Avalon, where she was simply Erin. No succeeding Breyer or Strauss, no preceding Section Chief or Mrs.

Just Erin. Erin Unattached, Erin of No Consequence, Erin Anonymous. Erin in her truest, most distilled form, without the weight and hassle of the world around her.

The problem was that Erin always ( _always_ ) had to return to the world of others, to the world of legally separated mother of three with a day job that often kept her long into the night, the world of uncertain and unloved and weak and overwhelmed.

Her mind returned to that world as she glanced down at her cell phone. Paul was still at their home in Vienna, having spent the past few weeks at her side, ensuring that she was still on the straight and narrow as she reintegrated into reality. She would be forever grateful to that man for once again going above and beyond, adhering to a commitment that was technically no longer his to keep (after all, their divorce would be finalized soon, he wasn't her husband, he didn't owe her loyalty and fidelity and devotion anymore, and yet he was still there, still holding her hand as she tried to stand on her own two feet again). She'd been back home since March, and though he was so kind and helpful, things were still strange and stressed between them, so she'd extended her leave of absence from the Bureau to travel back to Massachusetts, using Andrew as an excuse to give Paul a break from being her keeper (she needed to learn to live without his help). Erin had spent almost three weeks at Andrew's side, helping Lina in any way that she could and silently shoring up her emotional defenses for the impending hit of losing her baby brother.

Andrew. Oh, Andrew, her beautiful, shining boy, so pale and sickly and unlike himself. He was still alive, but he had already informed Erin that he felt he would not survive the summer ( _I always hoped to die on the beach, so at least I'll go before the water gets too cold—not a bad idea, right, RT?_ ), and when she looked at his haggard face, his skin as worn and brittle as old paper, she knew that his prediction would probably prove true.

Unfortunately, she couldn't stay away from the Bureau indefinitely—at least not while still drawing a salary and holding the title of  _Section Chief_ —although, after her embarrassing actions on the Somerville case, she would have been happy to never have to face any of those agents again. Still, part of the program involved learning how to make amends for past actions, owning up to past mistakes, and so she'd shoulder this command just like every other one that she'd received in her life. She'd packed her bags again, left the wonderfully quiet guest room in Andrew and Lina's house, and returned to life in Virginia as Section Chief Erin Strauss, owner of many heartaches and bad decisions, fucker-upper of life extraordinaire.

She'd been back for over a month now, and things were still strained and awkward as she and Paul learned to move around each other again, in a new and uncertain way. When she had returned, she simply started sleeping in Jordan's old room, because honestly, she couldn't stand the thought of sleeping in the bed which had held them for so many years, in the bed that had always been meant for two (it was a stupid, sloppy, sentimental thing, but she would eventually have to throw out the old mattress whenever he left, because it held too many ghosts, which kept her awake at night). It certainly didn't help that Christopher and Anna were still there, too, still watching their every movement with soft, sad eyes (they were little ghosts, too, reminders of all the ways that Erin had failed her husband, her family, her self, little ghosts with no earthly idea of how they haunted their mother with the truths about themselves which they could never know).

On sheer impulse, she dialed the house number.

"Hello?" Paul answered on the second ring.

"It's me. I…I think I'm gonna stay in a hotel tonight."

"You sure?" There was a softness to his voice that was something between pity and consternation—he knew why she wanted to stay in a hotel, and he knew that he was the cause of it.

"Yes," she gave a curt nod of her head. "I just….I need some time to myself."

"I understand," he admitted quietly, and she knew that he truly did. With a hopeful note, he added, "I got the call today—the apartment will be ready by next Wednesday."

"That's good." She tried not to sound quite so pleased by his imminent departure, yet she didn't want to sound upset, either. This was how every conversation was between them—a precarious fine line, a tight-rope walk over the widening chasm of what they had been and what they were trying to become.

"So…you'll be back home tomorrow?"

Home. The place and the word were still the same, but the meaning was totally different now.

"Yes. See you tomorrow."

Gods, life was a curious thing. She couldn't even remember how hers had gotten to this point (well, she probably could, if she graphed it out and pinpointed all the major events on a timeline, but real life wasn't a graph, it was a moving, shifting thing that you weaved and dodged through, and it wasn't until later that you looked back and realized that every step had a consequence, whether good or bad).

Tossing her cell back into her large leather purse, she rose to her feet and promptly clipped her way across the thick carpet to the front desk. Forget testing her limits with the bar—she'd get a room, draw a nice hot bath, order room service, enjoy the silence and the complete lack of awkwardness, spend the evening pampering herself and perhaps even get in a few rounds of stroking to ease the stress (gods, she'd forgotten the effect that staying in hotels had on her, because they always smelled exactly the same, because the sheets always felt the same, they always triggered the same responses as her body drifted into warm memories of times spent with a certain individual).

"Rossi. R-o-s-s-i."

If the name didn't catch her ear, that unmistakable smooth voice certainly did. She looked further down the marble counter to see David Rossi smiling at the young concierge clerk as he waited for her to find his reservation in her computer files.

Speaking of metaphorical fires and withstanding temptation….she merely pursed her lips in amusement at the absurdity of it all. Had it been anyone else, she would have considered such a situation completely improbable, but she'd learned long ago that David Rossi (and her relationship with him) never fit under the labels of  _logical_  or  _probable_.

She turned her attention to the young woman smiling at her, reserving her own room for the night. Although there was now someone else standing between them, talking to a third desk clerk, she could still feel David suddenly shift, alert at the sound of her voice.

Sweet Jesus in Short-pants, what on earth was Erin Strauss doing here? David craned his neck around the person next to him, though he didn't need visual confirmation to know that the low voice booking a room did indeed belong to a certain blonde section chief.

He hadn't seen her since they'd deboarded the plane after the Somerville Military Academy case. That was five long months ago. And though the higher ups (Hotch included) had been notoriously tight-lipped about her absence, David had been smart enough to piece together a fairly accurate narrative. Hotch had quietly informed the team that their section chief would be gone for approximately three months, and David knew what that meant—the big time, three step detox-rehab-integration (he hadn't realized that she'd gotten that bad off, but suddenly, little moments and actions from previous encounters over the past year had made sense). She'd been back for a very short time, then she was gone again for a little while, and now she was back again, though he hadn't actually laid eyes on her until this very moment.

He'd wanted to go up to her office several times, just to say hello and see how she was doing, but he hadn't acted on those impulses. A small, sad voice had told him that he didn't have the right to know how she was doing, didn't have the right to ask, not after all the bad blood which had built up between them over the past five years, not after all the times he'd been so scathing and cruel towards her (she had always pretended that his words never hurt, but he knew, he knew because he knew her so well, that so many times his marks hit their targets with such easy precision).

But now she was here, just a few feet away, and he had every excuse to make small talk with her (he tried to forget how many erotic memories started with a simple conversation in a hotel lobby). So he slipped a little closer and waited for her to finish checking in.

She looked good. Brighter. Solider. More present. She didn't have a bag, which meant this wasn't a planned thing, and that piqued his curiosity. After all, Erin lived in the suburbs (he probably shouldn't know that), and it wasn't more than a half-hour's drive from the District.

The clerk set a pen on the counter, next to Erin's confirmation receipt, and it rolled over the edge and onto the floor. The blonde easily stooped to pick it up with her left hand ( _God bless whoever invented high heels and pencil skirts_ ), and that's when David noticed something even more curious.

Erin Strauss wasn't wearing her wedding ring.

For as long as he had known this woman, she'd always had a band of gold around that oh-so-symbolic finger (even during their nights together, that ring had still been there, a silent reminder of all that they weren't and all that they were). This was the first time in 27 years that he'd ever seen that finger bare.

Damned if his stupid little heart didn't actually skip a beat at the realization, though he told himself that it didn't mean anything.

But it did. It meant something, it meant  _everything_ , because it meant that for the first time ever, the playing field was level. For the first time ever, he and Erin Strauss were on the same page. No other spouses or lovers, simply two single people, free to do whatever they pleased.

But what if that wasn't true? He hadn't seen Erin in almost five months—how long had she been away from her husband? Had she already taken a lover, a boyfriend, a guy on the side?

The thought filled him with a dark heat—he'd waited so long for a moment like this, he'd never be content to just let it slip away (to let  _her_  slip away, to let go of a chance to truly see what this could be between them, to  _finally_  look for something more). God as his witness, he'd sweep her off her feet, he'd steal her away from any other man who dared to try and take away this blessed opportunity.

David surprised himself with the intensity of his own emotions. For years now, he'd been honest enough with himself to admit that he truly cared for Erin Strauss, but he'd always pushed those thoughts away, had always gently reminded himself that those feelings could never be expressed, because he never wanted to ruin the perfect, peaceful life that she'd built for herself over the years.

Apparently she was creating a new life now. Which meant that David Rossi had his first and final chance to make himself a part of that life—a chance to be on the inside looking out, to be the opposite of everything they'd been before, to finally be able to acknowledge all that had happened between them.

If that was what she wanted, of course. Suddenly, he felt a rush of fear at the thought that perhaps Erin wouldn't want to explore the strange thing that had grown between them all these years, perhaps she wanted a truly clean slate, not something built on lies and darkness and blood. He realized, with absolute clarity, that if she didn't want something more, then he wouldn't pursue it. And with that realization came the inevitable acceptance of the fact that he truly loved this woman standing before him—there was no other explanation for this painful sacrifice that he was willing to make, at a moment's notice, for her own happiness and well-being. But he wouldn't know if he didn't first ask, and he was certainly going to know, one way or another.

Erin had already begun to feel the familiar ripple across her skin as soon as David moved closer. She finished signing her receipt, took her room keys, and turned around to face the man who was watching her with an odd mixture of wonder and amusement (and something else, something a little more feral, something darker that made her stomach flutter).

"Erin. Are you here for Big Smoke?" His grin informed her that he already knew the answer to the question. He was trying to remain upbeat and playful, trying to cover up all the deeper, ripping, rolling emotions that were hammering through his chest at the realization that so much could hang in the balance at this particular exchange.

She glanced around the lobby, her eyes alighting on the large sign advertising the cigar aficionado event. She merely grinned in response, giving a slight shrug, "Well, I can't give up all my vices, Mr. Rossi."

That was something she'd regained during her time in the drink tank—her ability to think clearly and quickly, her razor wit that had been dulled by so much alcohol.

Apparently, David didn't share her sense of humor, because an unreadable look passed over his face as he stepped forward, gently asking, "Is everything OK?"

She wasn't sure how he knew, but she wasn't really surprised. He always seemed to know all the things that she didn't want him to know.

"I'm…everything's fine," she blinked quickly, still taken aback by his sudden softness. "I just…Paul's moving out next week, and we've…we were separated before, before I went into treatment, and I….things are just weird, so I decided to spend the night here."

She honestly had no idea why she was telling him all of this, why she was spilling her guts in the hotel lobby to a man who hadn't been anything close to a friend to her for over a decade—but here she was, doing exactly that. That was another miracle wrought by detox and rehab—she'd learned humility, and with that came the ability to be completely honest.

David was shocked at how brutally open she was being, because they'd been nothing short of adversaries ever since he'd returned to the BAU (that was his fault, he knew, because on his first day back, he'd been so gruff, so cruel, and he'd set the tone, which she dutifully followed). Her honesty was the sort of thing he would have expected from her twenty years ago, when they were both just agents, working the case together. It was the part that he'd missed for so long.

"I'm sorry. I had no idea." Without even thinking, his hand automatically went to her arm in a gesture of comfort, and she instantly froze at his touch. He quickly dropped his hand, "I'm sorry."

She reached forward and grabbed his wrist, trying to reassure him that he hadn't upset her with his touch (well, he had, but not in the way that he thought), "No, no. It's fine, David, really."

"Is it?" He asked quietly, his dark eyes searching her light ones. She knew the question wasn't just about the current state of events—it was about them, about where they stood. He wanted to say so much to her, but he didn't want to push, not if she was in a fragile state. He wanted to love her, not break her.

"Yes," she nodded, offering another smile.

"Good," he smiled as well, the relief blossoming across his face. Despite his previous thoughts of sweeping her off her feet, his main priority was making sure that she truly was alright—he'd wondered and worried about her for months now; he couldn't pretend that he didn't care about her well-being.

There was a line forming around them, so she gently guided them away from the front desk, back into a less populated section of the lobby. He turned back to her expectantly, "So, what are your plans for the evening?"

Oh, what a loaded question. Still, she remained nonchalant, "A hot bath and glorious silence."

"Seriously? That's it?" He obviously didn't approve.

"It's what I want."

"It's not what you need."

Oh. There was definitely a spark at that insinuation. And Erin didn't shy away. Instead, she took a step closer, looking dead into those dark eyes as she asked, "And what, exactly, do you think I need?"

_Erin Elaine, what in hell do you think you're doing?_  The mother-voice in her head was practically shrieking, but a smaller quieter voice reminded her that there was nothing wrong with this (not anymore, not since they were both free, not since there really wasn't anything more to lose).

David Rossi's blood was already stirring with possibility (he didn't believe in chance, not when it came to Erin, not when it involved their too-often-to-be-sheer-happenstance meetings), but her low question and her burning eyes seared his flesh like a branding iron, and he knew instantly how this night was going to end—the only way it could end, the only way it ever would end between them.

Match. Set.  _Fire_.

Of course, that didn't mean that he shouldn't enjoy every second of the delicious foreplay that Erin Strauss always provided (she'd always been like a master conductor, leading a symphony, building and receding and unraveling every minute, every glance, every breath in perfect tempo—hell, the first time in Seattle, foreplay had lasted three days before they even so much as kissed). The sun hadn't even set, so there was plenty of time to pretend that they weren't going to end up in bed together. Besides, this time was going to be different—this time, he was out to prove something ( _I can be more, we can be more, so much more than just a quick roll in the sack every ten years, more than we've ever been before_ ).

He took a step closer, too, his body brushing against hers, his voice matching her low, seductive timbre as he asked, "Do you trust me?"

The corner of her lips curled into a smirk before she answered, "Not any further than I can throw you."

Interesting imagery. Still, he couldn't deviate from his current course of action, because he suddenly had a plan for his grandest seduction of Erin Strauss yet. If only she'd play along.

"I want to make a deal with you," he shifted forward again, relishing the slight brush of her chest against his own (he knew how responsive the flesh was underneath those layers of fabric, and from the slight flutter of her eyelids, he could easily imagine the ways in which she was already acquiescing to his request).

"Which is?" She kept the breathiness from her tone, counting it a small victory against the man who could topple her like the walls of Jericho with a single touch.

"Tonight I'll give you exactly what you need." Fortune favors the bold, and that was what David Rossi was banking on as he laid on his cards on the table.

"I'm going to need a little more detail than that before I agree to anything," her tone was wry, betraying the fact that she knew exactly what this deal would entail.

Ever the dramatic bastard, he gave a slight glance around the room ( _I couldn't give you those kinds of details, not in public, not in front of other people_ ), and he knew that it had its intended effect, because there was the faintest blush across that lovely freckled chest (it was so funny, she had a cast-iron poker face, but whenever she was embarrassed or aroused, her flesh always gave her away).

"After all, for it to be a deal, there must be something you get in return," she added, and this time, she couldn't keep the breathless tone from her voice (though she didn't really try to, either, because he was being wicked and two could play that game).

He didn't shy away from her question, looking straight into her eyes as he calmly stated, "Your complete compliance and trust."

She laughed at this, her sharp pitch echoing in the high-vaulted ceiling and reverberating back down to them as she looked at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling in amusement as she queried, "What is this, David—a modern remake of  _Dangerous Liaisons_?"

He gave a grin at the quip (she'd make a stunning Marquise, with that regal bearing and that wicked tongue), but he returned to the matter at hand, his voice dipping lower as he explained, "You need a break from reality. I'm offering you that—but I'm asking that you simply allow me to work my magic, without question."

_Work my magic._  Oh, she knew exactly what kind of magic that man could work—and she couldn't (wouldn't) deny that it was also exactly what she wanted, what she needed.

Still, one can't be so easily won. It lessens the savor of victory.

"That's still too vague for my tastes," she informed him.

"Take it or leave it, kitten."

It had been ages since he'd called her that, but oddly enough, it still held some weight.

"A break from reality?" She looked down the full length of her nose at him (which seemed impossible, since she was shorter than he was, but somehow, she made it seem like she was towering over him as she contemplated the question).

"Yes."

"Not all breaks from reality are pleasant."

"This one will be."

"Very sure of yourself, Mr. Rossi."

He leaned forward again, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear as he whispered, "Because I know you, Erin Strauss. I know you better than you care to admit."

The heat of his breath on her skin sent a shiver down her spine, and a smile involuntarily slipped onto her lips as she silently acknowledged the truth in his words.

There. David had landed his first true volley of the evening—the mantra that would be his running theme, his point to prove over the next few hours.

It still wasn't enough, because Erin Strauss was simply staring up at him with those big grey-green eyes (God, if she knew just how powerful those two orbs were, she'd rule the world), waiting for him to expound upon his statement.

His fingers lightly followed the outline of her arm, gently trailing across the fabric of her sweater as he huskily informed her, "It's been stressful. You're feeling distanced, off-balance, like you're floating away with nothing to tether you back to earth. But maybe that's exactly what you need, Erin—maybe you need to drift away, just for a little while, just for a few hours. You need to remember what it's like to simply enjoy the finer things in life."

"I'll remember that, whenever I slip into my lovely hot bath  _alone_ ," she returned smoothly, pivoting on her heel and moving towards the elevators.

Oh, so he was going to have to work harder. That was quite alright. It had been so long since he'd played this game with her, he relished the chance to stretch his muscles.

In a few quick bounds, he was at her side again, his hand easily resting on the small of her back.

"Wouldn't it be better if you had someone to massage your feet as you sit in your lovely hot bath?" He asked, his tone so casual that she couldn't believe her ears. In all the years that they'd known each other, he'd never propositioned her so blatantly.

She gave a small hum of agreement, her tone laced with wry amusement as she pointed out, "But you would never be content with a simple foot massage."

"True. Then again, neither would you."

She had to admit that he had a very valid point.

The elevator arrived, the doors slowly opening with a light ding, and his fingers gently gripped the curve of her elbow, pulling her back as other people boarded the elevator, which was too full to take them both, so he simply waved it on.

She didn't speak, although she was gazing up at him with a soft sense of wonderment (he'd never been this aggressive, she'd always been the one to make the first move, to call the shots, to push and pull until he capitulated). This was a new game.

"What do you think you're doing?" She asked quietly, still unsure of whether to be amused or angry.

He was leaning over again, whispering in her ear, "Say yes, bella."

That endearment got her every time.  _Say yes_. He didn't promise that she wouldn't regret it, because they both knew that neither one would ( _never had, never will_ ). His hand was still at her elbow in an oddly possessive gesture, in a way that he'd never touched her before, and she couldn't deny the dark thrill that it stirred within her. This first time, in New York, it had been a mutual thing, but every time after that, it seemed that Erin was the one who had been the hunter, the one seeking him out, and now…now their roles were reversing.

David Rossi wanted her. They were both stone-cold sober, with no extraneous events weighing down on them, with no reasons or excuses other than simple desire, and he wanted her, not because she was upset and he wanted to comfort her, not because she'd thrown herself at him or because they were trying to push away the sad remains of the day, but simply because he  _wanted_  her.

She'd never let him take full control of anything, much less given him free reign in seduction, and after all those years of hearing tales of the nefarious Casanova of Quantico, she'd never actually known what it was like to truly experience being a conquest of David Rossi.

Conquest. Gods, she certainly must be a raging masochist, because that simple word only deepened the heat seeping through her blood.

One night. That was all he was asking for. And she'd already decided, long before he arrived, that she was going to spend the evening checking out from reality. What harm could possibly come from letting him have his way for a single night?

He was watching her with those deep dark eyes, looking as if he could devour her whole, right here in the elevator lobby, and she had to force herself to swallow, to remember how to speak.

"Yes," she breathed.

"Full compliance?"

Gods, though she knew that he'd never hurt her or place her in any real danger, those two words still held such weight. Still, she gave a slight nod, "Yes."

"If you have any more reservations or questions, voice them now," he kept his gaze locked onto hers. "Because once we step on the elevator, it's a no-questions-asked policy."

"Jesus, David, you sound like you're reliving your Mafia days."

Her retort made him laugh—of course she would bring that up, because nothing was sacred to this woman, she pulled no punches and she expected none softened in return.

"I just want you to trust me," his expression became tender again, and she understood the emotions behind the words ( _I'm not gonna hurt you, bella, I want you to trust me, to love me, to let me take care of you_ ).

She smiled up at him, pushing down another strange wave of uncertainty and arousal as she quietly answered, "I do, David. I trust you. No questions asked."

He grinned and gave a curt nod of approval. Then he held out his other hand, "Room keys, please."

She handed over her key cards, and he glanced at the room number, "Sixth floor. I'm on the tenth. The Regency Suite."

"Very nice."

"It is. You should take a look. Lovely view of the city."

"I suppose I have the time." She was playing along (though he was still letting her choose, still not ordering her to do anything, and that lessened the uncertainty, because it meant that the old David, the one who truly cared, was still there, just playing a new game). They stepped onto the elevator and David didn't even crack a smile at this small capitulation (there was too much on the line here, this seduction was a culmination of over twenty years' worth of emotions and pent-up desires, and he would not lose focus).

She gave an appreciative hum at the sprawling room with the large windows and the lush bedding, already feeling the heat between her legs as she envisioned sprawling across that rich comforter with David beneath her (or beside her or above her, she really wasn't too picky on the details at this particular moment). She moved to the window, looking down into the street below, at the horizon that was slowly becoming a lovely dusky rose.

He was standing beside her again, his hands tucked innocently in his pockets as he nodded towards a restaurant down the block, "Ever been there?"

"No, I don't think I have."

"We should go." He spoke so easily, making it sound like a suggestion when they both knew that, according to the rules of their agreement for the evening, it was technically a command. "Consider it my 'welcome back' gift."

"I've been back for weeks now, David."

"And I've been busy catching bad guys, Erin. Cut me some slack."

She grinned at this, giving a slight shrug of acquiescence (he did have a valid point, after all). "Fine. I accept your gift."

He turned to her, slipping her purse off her shoulder, "This can stay here. You won't need it."

"But my wallet—"

"You won't need it. My treat, remember?"

"At least let me get my phone—"

"Absolutely not—"

"David, I need my phone, I can't just—"

His finger on her lips stopped her instantly, and those beautiful doll eyes flew open in shock at the simple touch. He had to remind himself to breath before he spoke again, and his expression filled with a mixture of amusement and exasperation as he pointed out, "It's been less than ten minutes, and you're already breaking the rules."

"Oh." She blushed slightly, and he found it endearing. "I'm sorry. It's just, I can't—"

"Full compliance, bella." He reminded her in a low tone, one that sent a shiver dancing across her skin. The only light in the room was the lights of the city, which made his eyes glitter like some modern-day Mephistopheles, dark and entrancing and mind-stoppingly seductive.

However, her Mephisto was a compassionate one, because he quietly added, "Just for dinner. Two hours. Then we can come back for your phone."

She nodded in agreement and he moved away, setting her purse on the dresser. He took his own cell out of his pocket, holding it up as he set it next to her things, "See? Level playing field. I'm leaving mine, too. No distractions whatsoever."

She wanted to retort, to ask  _what if we get called out on a case?_ , but gods help her, she actually wanted to play by David's rules, to give him something after all those years of following her every whim. So instead, she simply smiled and headed back to the elevators.

* * *

Erin was surprised that David Rossi's ability to seduce a woman had nothing to do with low teasing remarks or languorous caresses or any stereotypical Lothario activity. Instead, he was simply attentive throughout the evening, placing his hand on the small of her back to steady her whenever they walked across the street (high heels and uneven pavement were not a good mix), deciding to simply order water at dinner (Paul would have gotten himself a glass of wine anyways, just as he had done even after her first round of rehab), listening and asking truly thoughtful and caring questions about her readjustment to life after detox, about her brother, about her children, about returning to work. He noticed her hesitancy to talk about her alcoholism, and he graciously didn't press the subject.

By the time they had returned to the hotel, she had decided that she really did enjoy being unplugged from reality, although David still went upstairs to retrieve their phones and her hand bag (because, really, they could get called out at a moment's notice, and she had children who might need her, and she'd done so well by agreeing to leave the phones behind during dinner). Of course, his original reason for being here was the Big Smoke event, which was now in full swing in the hotel ballroom—this would still be something new for Erin, something to keep her distracted from reality, something to prove that he could be patient, so they went back downstairs.

They wandered through the crowd, and she actually found herself smiling at how seriously he approached the acquisition of cigars, his knowledge and expertise making him seem like an Italian Hemingway (a writer, a warrior, a lover of fine things, a man of so many tastes and cultured habits). Erin knew absolutely nothing about cigars, and he explained things in a way that was never patronizing or overbearing (though sometimes he teased her, because some things never change).

Dinner had been quieter, more relaxing and serious, but this was something more playful—this was the second act of the seduction, after he'd made her all starry-eyed from his respectful behavior at dinner, he now reminded her that it was quite alright to laugh. This camaraderie and respect reminded her of how they used to be, back in the 80s, back when they were both simply agents, and surprisingly, this was what made her want him (though perhaps not too surprisingly, because really, the only times they'd come together was when he was being kind to her).

And also, oddly enough, it was all the things he  _wasn't_  doing that made her want him, too—he wasn't touching her, wasn't whispering in her ear, wasn't treating her as anything more than a friend, and right now, she wanted to feel his arm around her waist, wanted to feel the possessive weight of his hand on her skin, to feel the warmth of his breath on her neck, wanted everyone in the room to know that they were here together, and that they would be leaving here  _together_. David was still an attractive man, and he had always possessed that strange magnetism, that easy cat-like movement that made a woman want to watch his every move, and Erin saw the other women in the room who were doing just that—their eyes following him with barely-concealed attraction, the younger ones who sidled up and asked wide-eyed questions about this set or that cigar, or the ones who tried to impress him with their knowledge. She had never been the jealous type, but gods, there were several times when she very quietly wanted to walk up to David and slip her arm around him while staring dead into the eyes of whichever perky-breasted twenty-something was currently speaking to him, silently informing her,  _This one's mine, sweetie, move along._

However, she didn't act on these impulses. First of all, because David wasn't hers. Secondly, because tonight, he was the one who was supposed to make the moves; she was simply taking whatever he gave her, no questions asked. Unfortunately, right now he wasn't giving her  _anything_.

David Rossi had a point to prove. He needed, more than anything, to show Erin Strauss that he could be more than just a lover, more than just a friend—he could be a partner, a strong combination of the two, he could be the man who fucked her senseless and still listened to the minute details of her day, the man who could simply walk beside her without needing anything more than the simple joy of her presence, yet who could just as easily make her weak in the knees with a single whisper, a single glance, a single touch.

Of course, that wasn't an easy task, not when Erin looked so deliciously relaxed, not when she was leaning over the tables to inspect various cigars with a childlike curiosity (God, didn't she know what that skirt did for her ass when she leaned forward like that?), not when she was floating through the room, so completely unaware of the men turning around for a second look, the ones who looked at David with respect for being able to hold on to a woman like that ( _they think she's some corporate secretary type, some bubbly and cuddly fuck-bunny, if they only knew that she could probably outshoot every person in this room and double-tap most of them before they even saw her draw a weapon_ ). It was so hard to simply smile and answer her questions when the lovely exposed skin on her collar bone was calling softly,  _don't you want to remember what I taste like?_

Ten years. Had it really been ten years?

He tried to keep his mind focused, to prove that he could see her as something more, that he wasn't like every other man in this room, who simply wanted to peel that skirt off those lovely hips (though he couldn't blame them), that he wanted more than just her body—he wanted her mind, her character, her personality, her past, her present, her future, every-little-thing-in-between.

Of course, he couldn't tell her that, either. During dinner, she'd told him about how horrible the end of her marriage to Paul had been—he sensed her relief at finally being on her own again, at finally feeling like her decisions and her destiny were not partially in someone else's keeping. How could he turn around and ask her to leap back into the same kind of relationship with him, with a man who was much less stable and dependable than the golden god Paul Strauss?

He shouldn't be jealous of Paul (especially not since the man was stupid enough to walk away from  _this_  woman), but he truly did feel resentment towards the man who had the chance to experience every facet of Erin Strauss for three full decades, who squandered such a thing by trying to tame and redefine what was obviously a wild creature (these were things he knew, based on little comments Erin had made over the years, little things she'd said when she thought he wasn't listening, little things she thought he'd never remember), who had never tried to understand or to be what Erin needed in life.

Well, Paul's loss was certainly his gain. At least for tonight.

* * *

By the time they left the event, Erin felt truly confused. She'd started this evening with the very distinct feeling that she knew exactly how it was going to end, with the hot and heady knowledge that David Rossi wanted her with a dark desire that only added to her own, and now…now she wasn't so sure.

David hadn't touched her since he'd helped her across the street after dinner, and even then, it had been a polite touch, not the kind that seeped into her skin with the heated certainty that she'd felt in the elevator lobby earlier that evening.

Of course, she'd also revealed way too much about her current issues with her soon-to-be ex-husband over dinner, and perhaps that was why things had changed—maybe David had finally realized how screwed up she was, maybe he didn't want to mess with a damaged chick, not even for a single night (she'd always wondered what he saw in her, maybe her allure wasn't strong enough to overpower the obvious baggage that she carried).

She wouldn't ask. That was part of deal, and she didn't want to beg (though, gods, her body was already begging, already aching for the simplest of touches, anything from him). If he decided that he didn't want her anymore, then she'd take it on the chin like a champ and walk away. She could do that….couldn't she?

It was a good thing that there were other people getting on the elevator, too, because that was probably the only thing keeping David Rossi from launching himself at the soft skin on Erin's neck, which had been calling to him all evening, or those thin and lovely lips that had taunted him with little smirks and quips throughout the night. He wanted to show her that he could enjoy a slow seduction, that he didn't have to come at her with the animal ferocity of all their past encounters, that he could consciously choose to be with her.

Suddenly, he was certain that he couldn't wait for the elevator (which seemed to move at a glacial pace now) to make it all the way up to the tenth floor, so as they boarded, he easily punched the sixth floor button.

Erin's heart dropped when she saw David hit the button for her floor—so he really was going to bow out of this little game between them. He really was done with Erin Strauss. He was going to walk her to her door, say  _thanks but no thanks, kitten_ , and waltz away. She didn't blame him.

David felt the sudden shift in Erin's demeanor, and he was immediately confused. Had she decided that she didn't want to go any further? Almost every other time, there had been alcohol involved (except for the last time in Seattle, when she might as well have been drunk, so shocked and unbalanced she was by her mother's sudden death), and maybe this time she was too clear-headed to fall into his arms again. He wouldn't blame her for not wanting to get involved, for wanting a new start, for wanting to keep the lines that had separated them for so long now.

He wouldn't push, and he wouldn't beg. But he also wouldn't throw it all away on an assumption—he wouldn't walk away until she asked him to, and when she did, he'd graciously step aside and give her the chance to find a new life for herself.

They arrived on the sixth floor, both suddenly off-balance and lost in their own depressing thoughts, both feeling so saddened by the imaginings of their own love-starved minds, each feeding off the other's odd energy and interpreting it for the worst.

They reached Erin's door, and she studiously kept her face turned away from him, because she knew that the moment he started speaking, she would start to cry, and she didn't want him to see that. She found her key card and turned her back to him as she tried to unlock the door.

Erin was completely shutting him out, and David's heart actually felt a pang. She was fidgeting with the door handle, trying to get her key card to work—her head was bent, giving him a perfect view of the smooth, soft skin at the back of her neck. He honestly wasn't sure that he'd ever kissed her there, and he realized that after tonight, he may never know what it felt like.

He couldn't stop himself—he reached forward, placing his hands on her upper arms and stilling her as his mouth came to rest on that thin strip of skin with the lightest, softest of brushes.

The touch of his lips was like the hand of God from Michelangelo's  _The Creation of Adam_ —beautiful, simple, full of promise, a sign of redemption and fulfilment that surpassed all explanation. Erin let out a skittering breath, the key card suddenly forgotten in its slot as she closed her eyes and prayed that he would continue.

He took her response as a sign of encouragement, so his mouth increased its pressure, actually tasting the skin beneath it. Erin hummed, shifting and bracing her hands against the door, resting her head against the metal as well, granting him better access. He stepped closer, his chest pressing against her shoulder blades as her hips automatically shifted closer to his own, seeking him out, pressing against him. He leaned forward, his hands coming to rest over her own, which were still firmly pressed against the door, his fingers threading through hers with a slight squeeze as he relishing the simple feeling of her hand in his (ten years, a  _decade_  since they'd even held hands). His chin slipped over the curve of her shoulder and she rolled her head in response, giving another hum when his mouth latched onto her skin again. Then she turned her head, her mouth seeking any piece of him that she could reach at this angle—his chin, the tip of his nose, his own mouth, it didn't matter, so long as it was him, it was him after so long and cruel an absence, after such terrifying uncertainty.

"I was so afraid," she breathed, keeping her eyes closed. "I was so afraid you'd changed mind, that you didn't want me—"

He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at how similar their thought patterns were at times, so he decided on the third option—simply showing her how wrong they both were. He grabbed her hips, roughly pulling her into him so that she could feel just how much he wanted her. She gave a small gasp that devolved into a moan as she kept pressing, kept rubbing against him, kept asking for more.

It was then that David remembered that they were still in the hallway. "Don't you think we should take this inside, bella?"

"It's your call, Mr. Rossi. I agreed to full compliance, remember?" Her voice bordered between taunting him and being completely serious, and he found himself chuckling again at this spitfire woman who knew exactly what cards to play and exactly when to play them.

He reached over and pulled the key card from the slot, and the door light flashed green. Erin opened the door and barely had time to turn around before he was pulling her back into his arms. For the first time in an entire decade, his mouth fully covered her own, his tongue returned to the place that still seemed so familiar and welcoming, and she moaned again, melting against the wall and pulling him with her as she fought the urge to laugh and cry in sheer relief. Her purse was dropped somewhere on the hotel room floor, and his jacket followed suit, quickly joined by her cardigan and her silk crème blouse.

Dear gods, they were less than three feet inside the door and she honestly wasn't sure that they'd make it to the bed—his shirt was coming off and her skirt was already at her hips and they were both fumbling, panting, searching for more.

David had his hands on her hips again, pushing her towards the bed, and she was stumbling backwards into darkness, because they hadn't taken the two extra seconds to turn on a light and there were only a few dim rays seeping through the windows from the city below. Suddenly, one of them tripped over a discarded item of clothing and they both fell back on the bed, laughing breathlessly.

"We're like two kids on prom night," he informed her, and she laughed at the quip, because they were so far removed from the bright-faced youths of yesteryear.

"Luckily for you, my skirt has less layers than a prom dress," she grinned.

"And this bed is a whole lot bigger than the backseat of my dad's car." Then he sat up, suddenly serious, "Are you still on the pill?"

She laughed at the question, "David, I'm way past needing birth control."

She didn't allow her mind to think about the fact that they had already made that mistake. She sat up, too, trying to phrase the question gently, "Have you…have you been with anyone…"

"Not for a long time. And all my tests are clean and up-to-date. You?"

"It's been a long time for me, too. And clean bill of health as well."

David found the conversation amusing, because it so closely mirrored their discussion the very first time that they'd ever been together—it was New York in the 1980s, and the fear of HIV-AIDS still ran at pandemic proportions, and suddenly, knowing your partner's sexual health status became a vital part of foreplay.

She misinterpreted his expression, because she blushed, "I'm sorry—I'm never good at being romantic, I always get so practical and pragmatic and—"

"And it's what makes you Erin, and therefore it's perfectly wonderful," he interrupted, pulling her closer to kiss her forehead.

The room suddenly got very still again as she simply looked up into his eyes. Slowly, he lowered his lips to hers, which opened so obligingly, silently encouraging him to come in deeper. The sheer relief of feeling his mouth again was enough to melt her entirely, the same heavy joy that one feels after being deprived of oxygen for so long, the same pulsing need for more, more of that glorious substance that brings life and color with it. Still, she let him set the pace, let his hands wander and dismantle her however they chose, let him take control of the moment, perhaps for the first time ever in their relationship.

David felt her compliance, and it only increased the ferocity of his caresses. Oh, his kitten, he knew her so well—he had only to push her far enough, and she'd finally respond with equal force. Still, she was trying to hold back, trying to adhere to the rules of their game, and that filled him with something deeper than lust (because it meant more, it meant that she was trying to give him something, trying to reach for him, perhaps even that she was trying to make this something more, too).

Now he was on his feet again, slipping her skirt off her hips and down her legs as she lay quietly on the bed, simply awaiting his next move. Her panties and pantyhose soon followed, and she bit back a grin when she realized that he was slipping her high heels back onto her feet. His mouth landed on the inner ankle of her left leg, slowly making its way up the curve of her calf.

She happily turned her face towards the ceiling as she closed her eyes with a smile.

Fire: 1, Erin Strauss: 0, but still somehow feeling like the winner in this little game—after all, ten whole years was a long time to hold your hand over an open flame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to add the bit about Erin going off to see Andrew in an attempt to correct some more continuity issues. In 7.14 Closing Time, in the scene where Morgan reminds Hotch that it's Valentine's day, Hotch mentions that "Strauss comes back next week", yet in 7.23 Hit/Run, Erin tells Morgan that she "hit the ground running", implying that she hadn't gotten a chance to apologize to him because this was her first case since she'd returned. Also, if Strauss has entered rehab at least once before (season six), and had struggled with alcoholism for most of her life (mentioned in season eight finale by Rossi), then she probably would have been in a program that lasted longer than 28 days, generally a 90 day or 14 week program…I realize that the air-date timeframe doesn't match the CM universe specifically, but there had been 7 cases (at least) in-between those two moments, so I tried to find an excuse for why Erin would not be involved in overseeing BAU cases, even though she'd technically been back for a while. So, I shipped her off to Massachussetts.
> 
> Also, the morning after this scene is technically detailed in my other short "Mulligan", which started this whole journey.


	39. The Designated Mourner

_"More than most, I know the pain of surviving."_

_~Ann Aguirre._

* * *

**December 2012. Washington, D.C.**

Things were beginning to move quickly—the BAU was finally aware, finally playing John's game, although they were still so far behind, still stumbling to figure out the rules.

John Curtis had always known that once they finally realized what was going on, the pace of this match would increase dramatically, and he began preparing himself for the endgame. Soon, he was going to show them that he was following their every move, but until then, he wanted to use his time wisely, collecting as much information as possible.

For the first time ever, he was grateful for the hordes of holiday shoppers which flooded the Capitol, because it allowed him to follow the BAU members at a closer range, without attracting undue attention.

Not that his current target would have noticed, anyways. Despite her past issues with stalkers and various other forms of being watched, Penelope Garcia was still probably the most oblivious person on the planet. In a way, he admired her—she never tried to alter her appearance to blend in, never looked over her shoulder or cared when people stared, never seemed afraid of anything, although she had every right to be a fearful creature, considering previous experience. Of course, her bravery was also foolhardy, and it made her less of a challenge, but she made up for her lack of difficulty by being entertaining to watch.

Technical Analyst Garcia had, by far, the most interesting schedule. She jetted around from parties to art exhibits to plays to ukulele lessons to grief support to her own personal counselor to coffee shops, a complete whirlwind of bright colors and odd ensembles. For example, right now, she had some kind of fiber optic lights in her hair, which were twinkling with the holiday hues of green and red as she moved easily through the crowd of shoppers, her big brown eyes glancing at shop windows (she obviously was on the hunt for a very specific gift, because she had that determined look about her). Someone accidentally bumped into her, and she waved away their apologies with a warm smile.

In that moment, John Curtis decided that when it came to the final checkmate, he wouldn't kill Penelope Garcia. After all, there had to be someone left behind, someone left to recount the legend, someone from the inside, who would remember just how brilliant and intricate his vendetta was. There always had to be a survivor, someone to tell the rest of the world what really happened, and she was the most logical choice—whenever they finally figured out his identity, she would be the one to compile his folder, to regulate the details of his life into neat, orderly rows, to see and understand the connections between them (both orphans, both so easily misunderstood and swept aside, both so uniquely suited for their respective roles), and to reveal that story to the rest of the Bureau. Yes, she would sit at a glass-top table made muddy with so many fingerprints, across from the director and all those other cold, dark suits who played with people's lives without a second thought, and with her tear-stained face, she would tell them,  _You did this, you brought this on your own heads_.

Yes, Penelope Garcia was most certainly the perfect messenger.

It had been years since John Curtis had to buy Christmas gifts for anyone (or gifts for any occasion, for any reason), and generally, he disliked being out and about in the holiday traffic, surrounded by all these cherry-cheeked fools with their pointless chatter and their mundane lives and their clawing, incessant need to prove their love through cheap gifts that would be forgotten and discarded within a fortnight (much like the way the Bureau discarded their own agents, without thought or pity or second glance). But following the easily-tracked blonde through this maze was actually enjoyable.

Penelope Garcia had ducked into a little boutique, something that boasted items from rare books to hand-crafted clocks, and John followed her inside, leisurely taking the time to scan the rows and stacks of items as his target began leafing through old manuscripts.

He noticed a table dedicated to hand-carved chess sets, and he moved closer to inspect them. One set in particular caught his eye—made from polished oak, it was lacquered and shining, the stark white squares contrasting perfectly with the vibrant black, and the pieces were a shale grey and a deep, waxy red. He gingerly picked up the red knight, perfectly weighted and expertly crafted, with baroque detailing on the base.

Perhaps he should buy himself a gift this Christmas. Something to commemorate this glorious culmination of his revenge. He set the knight back in its proper place and gave a small smile. Yes, this would be perfect. Almost as perfect as his eventual defeat of the BAU.

Now his current target was chatting happily with someone else in the store.

"You know, I don't even mind having so many gifts to buy," she was saying, her smile beaming. "It makes me happy, knowing that I have so many people whom I love enough to buy a gift."

He almost ( _almost_ ) felt a pang of pity for the cheerful technical analyst. By this time next year, she'd have seven less gifts to worry about. Well, six—he didn't imagine that she would be getting a present for Erin Strauss, who had a very poor friends-to-enemies ratio.

There had to be a survivor. As lonely and heartbreaking as it would be, Penelope Garcia was the chosen one, the designated mourner. She was used to living in grief; she would find a way to carry on—and with her, she would carry John's story, becoming the breathing memorial for all the ways the Bureau had failed, all the ways in which it had taken their brightest and best for granted, and she would force them to look in the face of their failure and their transgressions on a daily basis.

Really, there couldn't be any better revenge. Living ghosts always were the most persistent and haunting.

* * *

**May 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

"Please understand, I share your concern wholeheartedly."

There was a time when Penelope Garcia would have highly doubted this statement, considering its source, but now she knew that Erin Strauss was being completely honest with those words.

"However," the older woman continued. "The director wants assurances that you are not letting your personal feelings towards the team unduly influence your decisions about which cases you choose to send them on."

"Ma'am, all due respect, but you and I both know that I would never—"

"I know. I do." Erin assured her. She took another deep breath, "It's just that the director doesn't share my faith in you. He pointed out that the team hasn't been out in the field—it's a lull, I know that and you know that, it's just how it goes sometimes, but he thinks it's too... _coincidental_."

"So, what does he want me to do? Throw them out into the field, regardless of whether or not there's an actual police department asking for our help?" Penelope knew that Erin shared her frustration, but that didn't lessen her anger. She didn't like the implication that she wasn't doing her job—because after all this time, hadn't she proven herself? Hadn't she sent her loves into harm's way again and again, without complaint, simply because she knew that it was the job?

"He just wants assurances," Strauss repeated in a low tone, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers.

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"Oh, hell if I know."

There was a beat as both blondes took in the absurdity of the moment, and suddenly they were both laughing, more out of frustration than actual mirth, because really there wasn't anything else to do in this situation.

"I just want this to be over," Strauss admitted, closing her eyes.

"Me, too," Penelope said quietly. After another beat, she cautiously asked, "How's your son?"

"He's fine. He's handling it better than I am." Erin felt a small measure of satisfaction in being able to be completely truthful with her next comment, as she confessed, "He gets that from his father."

"Parents always worry more than the kid," the younger blonde assured her. "It's like an unwritten law of the Universe."

The section chief gave a small smile of agreement. There was another silence as both women realized that in two days, all of this worry and anxiety would be resolved, one way or another.

"I know," Strauss cleared her throat, her fingers fluttering at the edges of her lips as if she was trying to hold back her next words, but continued anyways. "I know that you aren't intentionally keeping the team out of the field...but...but if...if you  _could_ , just for the next two days—I can't officially ask you to, you know, but I—"

"I will," Penelope promised quickly, without any hesitation, because she understood the love and concern behind it (it was the same love and concern that she'd fought back every time that she accepted a new case over the past six months, and Erin's worry justified her own—because, after all, she'd just received a command from her superior, despite how secret and unofficial this command was). "And...and we never had this conversation."

Strauss gave a curt nod as she turned to leave, "Thank you, Garcia."

"For what, ma'am?" Penelope inquired with her most innocent and confused expression.

The older woman grinned, a true grin that reached from her dimples all the way up to her eyes. She silently wondered how she could have ever disliked the wonderful creature that was Penelope Garcia.

* * *

**Washington, D.C.**

Alex Blake heaved another box of books into the back of her husband's SUV, silently wondering for the hundredth time how on earth this man was going to store all of these books in his tiny new office at Harvard. There was definitely a glass of wine calling her name, once this was all finished.

Lightly kneading the muscles of her lower back as she went back inside, she traveled back into her husband's study, the cozy room filled with every nuance of him, which had been her sanctuary during the long months of his absence—she hated losing this connection to him, as selfish as it may seem. Before he'd returned home, some sleepless nights she would slip into this room, curl up in the huge wingback chair, and simply soak up the distinct feeling of  _James_ that always seemed to permeate from every corner, from all the little things that were his, the books and the sculptures and the photos and odd little knick-knacks like birds' nests and smooth stones.

Now the room looked bare, almost too open and sprawling, now that all of the books were packed into boxes, patiently waiting to be moved to their new home.

"Why the long face, Lex?"

He was the only one who called her that, and she smiled at the tenderness in his voice. "I'm just going to miss having a room that feels entirely like you."

He simply grinned at her response, moving across the room to pull her into a hug, kissing her mouth. She hummed in approval. His hands were roving, and she easily slipped out of his grasp, "Oh, no, we've got way too many boxes left to pack—"

"They can wait—"

"No, you said that yesterday—"

"And look, they waited! Such patient little boxes."

She laughed, shaking her head as she grabbed another box and headed back out to the vehicle, tossing over her shoulder, "Later, Dr. Blake."

By the time she'd reached the vehicle, James was at the doorstep, with another box. He called out after her, "I'm holding you to that promise, Sexy Lexy!"

"James!" She hissed, looking around quickly to make sure that none of their neighbors were within earshot.

"What? Who cares if anyone hears?" He was still grinning as he set the box in the back of the SUV. He gave a wave to Alex's security detail, the black sedan parked halfway down the block (and by their grins, she could tell that they heard her husband's words). Alex simply rolled her eyes, shaking her head in exasperation as she went back into the house.

He was laughing as he bounded in after her, "When are you gonna get rid of those guys, anyways?"

He was being nonchalant and playful about it, but Alex still heard the concern in her husband's voice. He tried to be supportive, tried not to let the dangers of her job worry him, and she'd always been grateful for it. Still, that didn't mean that he didn't worry.

"I don't know," she answered honestly, giving a heavy sigh as she double-checked the contents of a box. "I think the director is getting tired of allocating money and resources toward protecting a team that hasn't had an actual direct threat. I figure if our UNSUB doesn't make a move this weekend, then we'll probably lose our security details by next week."

"And what if your UNSUB does make a move?"

"I still don't know. It depends on what that move is."

"Damned if you do, damned if you don't."

"Pretty much," she gave another heavy sigh. James lifted another box, and she did the same, following him back out to the vehicle.

Because there was an SUV with two on-duty agents sitting less than 100 yards away, Alex Blake didn't glance around at her surroundings. And because she didn't look around, she didn't notice a nondescript man in a nondescript baseball cap walking a nondescript dog across the street. And because that man was so nondescript, he blended in perfectly with his surroundings, walking right past Alex Blake—getting within thirty feet of her, without even drawing the slightest bit of attention to himself.

It always amused John Curtis, how the FBI seemed to think that a protective detail was the end-all be-all to ensuring someone's safety. Really, it only meant that John simply had to curtail his surveillance to times and places where he would blend in, like supermarkets and movie theatres—however, this was a problem when it came to Alex Blake, who didn't seem to leave her house unless it was to go to the rare occasion that she spent an evening with friends, they invariably came to her house to visit. However, John didn't mind a challenge, although it wasn't much of a challenge at all—he simply went to a local shelter, picked up a generic-looking canine, parked his car approximately eight blocks from the Blake residence, and leisurely walked by, looking for all the world as if he belonged in the neighborhood.

Of course, Alex Blake didn't give him a first glance, much less a second thought.

Under the brim of his baseball cap, he watched her from the corner of his eye (never actually turning his head in her direction, never making it seem as if he noticed her at all, never drawing a second of unwanted attention). She was moving with her usual relaxed gait, grinning as her husband walked beside her, laughing at whatever he said. They were packing up his vehicle, but whatever the reason for the packing, it seemed joyful and mutual.

She looked so perfectly happy, in her pretty little home in the District, with her world-saving husband and their neatly-packaged little collection of achievements and accolades, with her protective detail just down the street, because she was such a valuable Bureau asset, the chosen one of the week, the flavor of the month on the insatiable palate of the FBI.

She had stolen everything from him. When they'd parted ways in 2002, he hadn't wished her ill—in fact, he'd hoped that she, too, would have a chance to regain what she'd lost, but he hadn't expected it to come at such a steep price. He hadn't expected her redemption to come at the cost of his own career and damnation.

No, he knew that Alex Blake hadn't chosen this—at least not directly, perhaps not even actively—but the fact that she was back in Erin Strauss' good graces implied that she had somehow capitulated to the system, that she'd turned into another sniveling sycophant which the Bureau was so fond of producing, that she had become a  _traitor_.

Yes, Alex Blake was a traitor. She'd accepted a position that she knew she wasn't qualified for, that she knew was meant for John Curtis, and that made her a cold-hearted traitor. And if she hadn't thought of John before accepting this position, well, that made her an even worse kind of turncoat—she was so deep within her own selfish world that she couldn't even acknowledge her betrayal. It meant that she'd truly become part of the Bureau, a mindless, soulless body devouring others without actual malice or forethought, but rather simply because that was how she survived.

He wasn't going to regret killing her. No, she was the whole reason behind this exercise, the catalyst for the destruction heading their way—besides, John was going to get a certain joy in proving just how wrong they were for choosing her (because she wouldn't be able to stop him, because she would only further prove her own ineptitude and weakness and inferiority in the end, because he would show the Bureau the error of their ways and further compound that lesson by taking away their shining star and their hope in her).

As if on cue, the muscles in his lower back gave a slight pang, reminding him of the fact that Alex Blake was even a source of physical pain in his life—he'd just returned from a long road trip to drop off another hint to the intrepid little team of analysts, and after so many months of traveling around the country, he'd begun to realize that his body was losing its youthful stamina.

Despite his fatigue, John felt a surge of gleeful anticipation. This next set of clues was the opening note of his final act, his Magnum Opus, the beginning of the inevitable end. Soon the whole world would know just how brilliant he was, soon the Bureau would recognize their own folly, soon his journey to redemption and vindication would truly begin.

Oh, he'd been so patient and persistent. And soon, he would be rewarded. Very, very soon.

* * *

**August 2012. Boston, Massachusetts.**

"There is an occasion for everything, and a time for every activity under heaven: a time to give birth and a time to die..."

Erin Strauss squinted under the midday sun as her grey-green eyes looked out over the cerulean blue sky. It was a beautiful day. Andrew would have loved it. Ever her smiling boy, he always loved the days when nature seemed as exuberant and joyful as he was.

The priest continued reciting the verses, those words of ages past that still somehow held depth and meaning in a world as strange and distant as this. "A time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance..."

This was certainly the time for weeping and mourning. Even as the priest spoke, Andrew's coffin was being slowly lowered into the ground, and Erin was thankful for the sunshine—the earth would be warm, like the sand at the house on Nantucket. He always liked digging his toes in the sand. She had a sudden flash of memory, a cotton-topped toddler Drew grinning up at her with cheeks rosy from the summer heat, giggling when Erin pretended to panic because she thought he'd lost his feet, which were actually burrowed deep in the sand.

There was a physical pain that washed over her like a wave, and she tightened her jaw to keep from actually wailing at the realization that her sweet, darling brother was now gone, and all that remained was an empty husk filled with harsh preservatives, trapped in a heavy metal box that would soon be buried in the earth.

"A time to search and a time to count as lost; a time to keep and a time to throw away..."

There was a light sob and Erin's eyes flickered to the source—Carole, wrapped in her husband Philip's arms as she covered her mouth with her hand, eyes squeezed shut in a vain attempt to hold back the tears that were slipping down her cheeks. She was certain that Carole's mind was projecting similar memories, warm moments with the little boy who had been the light and life of their parents' home, who'd always loved them all with such whole-hearted abandon that one wondered how his heart didn't simply explode from so much love and empathy, the little boy who grew into a honorable man, who dedicated his life to improving the lives of others through public service, who'd always been so graceful and gracious, and so very, very brave during the last months of his all-too-short life.

Anna, who was standing to Erin's left, simply shifted closer to her mother, and Erin wrapped her arm around her own bright baby, who laid her head on Erin's shoulder. Her skin was warm from the sun and her hair smelled like flowers and she was so painfully fresh-faced and beautiful and alive and young and so untouched by life, and the fiercest mother-part of Erin Strauss wished that she could keep her daughter like this forever, wished she could bottle up the youth and innocence and vitality and let Anna keep it with her always, wished that she could somehow ensure that her own child would never know the pain and suffering that comes to all humans, that she could always be safe and happy and loved and unmarred by time.

It was a futile wish, one that didn't even receive the slightest bit of hope, because Erin knew that such things were beyond her control. If wishing made it so, then Andrew would still be here—her wishes for Anna had been the same things that she'd wished for Andrew, and for the first time in many years, she'd prayed to a god in whom she no longer believed to make the past year simply a bad dream.

Of course, when praying to a nonexistent entity, one was certainly doomed to failure.

"A time to be silent and a time to speak; a time to love and a time to hate; a time for war and a time for peace." The priest quietly closed his Bible, taking a moment to look out at the large flock of mourners who huddled around the final resting place of Andrew Breyer. "Andrew has finally reached his time of peace. We must take comfort in that fact, in knowing that he truly is free from sin and pain, for the first time since his birth. And though it will not diminish how much we love him, or how deeply we miss him, it is the promise of seeing him again to which we must cling, with all hope and joy as we await our final reunion with our beloved friend and brother."

She wished that she could believe that there was something after this—that the sweet Elysian peace in which her father and mother had so devoutly believed was true, that her own doubt was unfounded, that beyond this shade was a place where her loved ones lived on, without pain or fear or worry. All of her life, she'd been taught these things, taught the wonders of Heaven and the terrors of Hell, and for a time, she'd even thought that she believed them.

And oh, how she had  _wanted_  to believe! How she longed for her father's quiet faith, for the beautiful peace she saw in his face as they sang hymns during Midnight Mass, for her mother's moral fortitude, for such divine strength in the face of human adversity, but over the years, her certainty had faded as she'd drifted further into the cold darkness of reality.

Lena, who'd lost thirty pounds due to the sleepless stress of the past few months and now had dark circles under her puffy red eyes, stepped forward, her hand shaking as she grabbed a handful of the freshly-churned dirt and sprinkled it over Andrew's casket, which was now safely tucked into its six-foot hole. Peter, who was standing at Erin's right side, moved forward as well, and his older sister followed after him with halting steps. Her children came behind her, followed by Carole and Philip and their children, and the rest of the family. They all repeated Lena's ritual, slowly creating a fine mist of earth over the polished coffin.

As they came back to their original positions, Peter's hand slipped silently into Erin's and they automatically squeezed each other in reassurance and comfort, the grit from the earth rubbing into their skin.  _We're still here, we're both still here. I'm right here and you're right here, and we're still together, we've still got an ally left, we're still here._

Andrew had been the one who called her when Mother died. Peter had been the one who called to say that Andrew had died. Who would call her when Peter was gone? Who would stand beside her and hold her hand when her other brother was laid to rest? Who else would know how to comfort her with their mere presence, with the mere reassurance of a shared history?

Her gaze wandered back over to Carole, and not for the first time, she wished that things between them had been different. She briefly wondered if her younger sister would even shed a tear when Erin died. The fact that she didn't know the answer only increased the mournful longing in her chest.

The day that they'd buried their father, they had all sat in the funeral limo and quietly acknowledged the fact that they were orphans now. It had been a moment of pure white-hot fear at the realization that they were now the heads of their family, the oldest surviving generation of their particular branch of the Breyer tree. Their own frailty and mortality had been almost palpable in that stuffy black cabin as they all silently stared at their knees, too tired to cry anymore.

Today they were leaving behind one of their own generation, the youngest, the one who was supposed to outlive and outshine them all. It was a bitch move on Fate's part, a cruel, spiteful, fucked-up thing to do, and yet, there it was, really happening before their grief-stricken eyes.

This was why Erin Strauss couldn't believe that there was a god. If there were some supreme being, then surely there would be some sense of order and justice in the world.

This was not the order of things.

This was not just.

And if there still somehow was a god above, then she thought he was rat bastard. She would never forgive him for punishing the innocents whom she loved and adored, while the imperfect and impure like her were allowed to roam free, blessed with goodness and great things beyond their own worthiness.

After everyone came by to shake her hand or hug her neck and offer empty condolences ( _words, words, words, always trying to fill the void, don't you know that silence is best?_ ), Erin's children retreated to the car while Erin and Peter stayed behind with Lena to watch the men fill the rest of Andrew's grave, shovelful by shovelful.

There was a quiet rustle behind them, and from the corner of her eye, Erin saw Carole moving next to her. Philip had taken their two children back to the car as well.

"He would have been happy," Lena broke the heavy silence. "He would have loved seeing the church filled with so many people."

"And the press," Peter added, and this earned him a slight smile from his sister-in-law. By the time of Andrew's death, the entire state had heard of his condition, and they had rallied behind him, his constituents sending cards and fruit baskets and holding candlelight vigils in his honor. He'd truly been loved and adored by the people whom he'd dedicated his life to serving, and it had been touching to see that his passion was recognized and appreciated.

"Yes," Lena said warmly. "He would have loved that, too."

"A funeral befitting of a Kennedy—he wouldn't have expected anything less." Erin pointed out, and everyone smiled again.

"I think he would have probably wanted a horse-drawn glass hearse though," Carole mused dryly, and that was what sent everyone into laughter (because she was right, because their Drew had always been a dramatic boy, given to pomp and circumstance and grand shows of affection).

"And a military marching band in full plumes," Peter spread his hands out grandly, as if he were picturing the scene in his mind.

"And professional wailers," Lena added. "No shoes, with sackcloth and ashes—the full works."

They were all chuckling softly at their over-the-top additions, all somehow feeling that Andrew was still standing next to them, grinning in agreement.

Another beat passed as they settled back into a quiet sadness, four warriors worn down and scarred up from the battle of life, the four remaining centurions on the Hadrian's Wall of their mutual grief and loss, staring down into a hole that kept getting smaller and smaller.

"I'm so tired," Lena announced sadly. "So very, very tired."

Peter simply wrapped his arm around her shoulders, his other hand taking Erin's again. Without a second's hesitation, Erin reached over and grabbed Carole's hand, too.

Surprisingly, Carole didn't pull away. Instead, she simply stood there, her thumb absentmindedly rubbing circles into the soft and worn skin on the back of her elder sister's hand, which suddenly felt so much like their mother's that she wanted to cry—it had been so long since she'd felt her mother's hands, and for a split second, she had regained a small fraction of what had been lost.

They stood there until the grave was completely filled, and the dark dirt smoothed over and patted down. The groundskeepers went away, and the four Breyers still remained.

"I'm going to plant a rose bush here, I think," Lena spoke again.

Erin gave a small nod of approval. "Souvenir de Saint Anne's is his favorite."

No one corrected her use of the present tense, though everyone felt it.

As usual, Carole took charge, moving around her siblings to take Lena in to her arms, "C'mon, Lena, let's get you back to the car. I think you could use a good nap."

The younger woman nodded in agreement, taking a moment to hug her other in-laws before walking back to the car with Carole, who simply offered a small smile to Erin and Peter.

A beat passed as the two eldest Breyers watched them go, then they turned back to their baby brother.

"I never had kids," Peter stated, somewhat unnecessarily. "But I think I know what they mean when they say a parent should never have to bury their child."

Erin made a small noise of agreement, her hand slipping into his again, this time clutching it for dear life.

"I think I know the feeling, too," she admitted softly, fighting back another wave of tears. She and Peter had practically raised Andrew, showering him with love and shielding him from their mother's harsh tongue and their father's work-related indifference. Their parents had been parents, when they could, but it hadn't been enough for a boy so determined to be loved, for someone like Andrew, who placed so much of his own happiness in the opinions and praise of others.

"How can the world possibly keep on turning?" Erin asked. "I mean, how do we just leave him here?"

"He isn't here anymore, Erin," Peter pointed out, his voice cracking with emotion.

Erin suddenly turned to her brother, and they held each other fiercely as they simply cried, truly cried for the first time in days. Erin's knees began to buckle and Peter caught her, steadied her as she clung to him with the helpless and frenzied fervor of a drowning woman. Peter was so much taller, and she could feel his shoulders slumping forward, pressing into her with heavy weight of grief, and she realized that she was holding him up just as much as he was supporting her.

They stayed there for some time, until the flurry of grief calmed into the quiet red-eyed sniffles of regained composure, both still holding onto each other as they found their own balance again with slight smiles at their own awkwardness.

Peter took another deep breath, wiping away the tears on his cheeks as he took one last look at the patch of dirt. Then he offered his hand to his sister again, which she gladly took. They slowly made their way back through the rows of headstones, shining in the bright afternoon sun like the polished bits of shell that they used to find on the beach when they were children, those little treasures that had seemed so beautiful and wondrous to their curious minds and fingers.

In a way, Erin had known that this was how it would always end—she and Peter had always said  _you and me against the world_ , and now, it was slowly moving from a figurative to a literal truth. Here they were, still holding hands as they walked through the valley of darkness, just as they'd done for over half a century, just as they would do until one of them betrayed their unspoken vow to live forever.

Peter began humming some old hymn, and Erin felt that she should know it, but her mind couldn't quite remember the words. She considered asking Peter the name of the song, but she felt too tired to open her mouth again, and the answer wasn't that important. The melody itself was comforting, and she thought perhaps it was one that their father used to sing, back when they still lived in Somerset, before he was a Federal judge, back when he still had time to scoop them onto his lap as he sat in the big wooden rocking chair on the back porch, his wide chest reverberating with the warm, smooth sound of his voice, lulling them into peaceful, protected drowsiness.

Now that all of the people were gone, Erin could hear the faint chirping of birds, and she smiled, because she knew that Andrew would have liked it here, surrounded by the sights and sounds of Mother Nature.

Gods, was this what it meant to be a survivor—to have every waking thought overtaken and possessed by the ghosts of those long past, to see the remembrance of lost loved ones forever reflected in the world around you, to feel pain in all the things that once brought you only peace and joy? Was this what life would become—a mere shade of its former self, as you turned into a ghost as well, haunted by all the things you did and didn't do, all the chances you didn't take to say  _I love you_ , all the moments forever robbed from you by those thrice-double damned bastardly villains Time and Chance?

It was then that Erin prayed (again, perhaps futilely) with every fiber of her being that she would never be the last of the Breyers. She didn't want to be the one who survived. Not when she understood the cost of such survival. Perhaps this made her selfish, but she suddenly realized that guilt was a whole lot easier to deal with than grief.

And all those sloppy human emotions were for the survivors, for the living, for those left behind. All the more reason not to be one of them.

For now, she was one. She was a mourner, a survivor, a soul which still had a body, still subject to all the ills and devastations of life. She still had bits of sand left in her hourglass, still had minutes and hours and perhaps even years and decades left to go, and she shouldn't be wasteful. Andrew had taught her that lesson so well over the past few months—nothing is sacred, nothing is certain, nothing is guaranteed. She knew that now, from the tips of her toes to the top of her head.

Life was not sacred, it was not just, it was not balanced and weighted and measured to your actions. It was simply a grand mind-fuck, and if you were stoic enough to pass through without completely losing all of your marbles, well, your reward was the exact same thing as everyone else's. Nothing. Nada. Big zip.

They reached the car and Peter quietly opened the door for her. They slid onto the black leather seats, not even bothering to smile at Lena and Carole and the rest of the limo's occupants, who'd all been patiently waiting for their arrival.

Here they were. The last Breyers standing. The remnants of Elaine and Jameson's grand love affair, pitifully huddled together like a raft of survivors from the Titanic.

Peter was still humming softly, his faced turned to the sunny sky as the car pulled away, leaving their baby brother behind. Erin's hand found itself in Peter's again, without conscious thought or explanation, as her mind repeated its refrain,  _Please don't let me lose him, ever, ever, ever. Please don't leave me, Peter. Please, please, please. You are the only one who knows me, who will ever know me—if you leave, I will disappear too, I'll slip and fade away, like a mere figment of your imagination. Oh, don't ever leave me…._

As if he could read her thoughts, her brother simply gave her hand one long, solid squeeze of reassurance ( _I'm here, I'm still here, I'm always here_ ).

She hated herself for wishing to go before he did, for wanting to leave him on his own, as the solitary mourner, the sole survivor, but Peter had always been stronger than she was. He would understand; he would forgive her because he loved her. She knew that he would. He always did.

* * *

_"For He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous."_

_~Matthew 5:45._


	40. Pas de Deux

_"It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important."_

_~Arthur Conan Doyle._

* * *

**May 2012. Rural Virginia.**

It was strange to think—in the almost-thirty years that they'd known each other, this was the first time they'd ever danced together. When Erin really thought about it, it made sense (after all, there aren't many balls to attend when you're chasing down the scum of the earth), but still, it somehow seemed strange.

Of course, tonight was a perfect excuse—weddings always made people romantic and sentimental, and JJ's big night was certainly no exception. David's hand was on her lower back, gently pulling her body closer to his as they set pace to the music drifting softly and sweetly into the night. She automatically shifted in response, her chin lightly resting on the solid line of his shoulder (they had to be so careful, in this moment, when all of their colleagues were watching, they couldn't give away how familiar they were with each other's bodies).

In this moment, Erin Strauss was hyper-aware of every detail—the solid feel of his hand in hers, the texture of his suit jacket beneath her fingertips, the smell of his cologne, every movement that he made as he gently guided her across the dance floor. Turning her head a fraction of an inch, she could feel the heat radiating from the skin of his neck, and she knew how smooth it would feel beneath her lips, and her mouth actually  _ached_  for another taste.

Apparently, his thoughts were following the same path, because his hand was slipping further down, past the small of her back, and he was pulling her closer again, so that their chests were flushed together. She turned her head slightly again, unable to stop herself from opening her mouth, although she was able to smother the gasp that jolted into her lungs at the mere sensation of their bodies molding together again. He noticed this, because he simply tilted his mouth closer to her ear, his warm breath trickling over her skin as he whispered, "No one's looking, bella. Calm down."

Of course, leaning in to whisper allowed him to keep his lips dangerously close to her ear, to take in the scent of her hair, to watch the goosebumps ripple across her skin underneath his breath, to feel how she wasn't shifting away from him, but actually closer, returning the pressure of her body against his.

"I…I wasn't—I don't care about that, not really," she shocked herself with her own words, shocked herself even more with the realization that she actually meant them. She caught the smile that danced at the corner of his mouth at that confession.

His tone was laced with a playful taunting as he whispered, "So…if I kissed you right now, in front of everyone—"

"You wouldn't," she said smoothly, her light eyes flicking up to meet his dark ones.

"How do you know?" He challenged.

"Because I know you, David Rossi." Her voice dipped even lower, into a seductively-sweet purr. "I know you better than you care to admit."

She was quoting him back to himself—using the same words that he'd said to her just two nights earlier, in the hotel foyer. This did not go unnoticed by David, and he merely chuckled dryly at the fact that she always knew how to use his own words against him, every time.

"So…we really are acknowledging that this last time actually happened?" He needed to hear it, needed to know for sure, wanted to hear her lips confess what her hand had silently told him the day before, when she'd grabbed his hand as she was leaving the bank.

"Yes," she answered quietly. Then she became nervous, quickly adding, "I mean, if—if you think it's a good idea. I…I don't want to assume—"

"I think it's a very good idea," he said warmly.

"We should probably find some time to sit down and actually talk about…whatever this is," she informed him, and he gave a small hum of agreement.

"That should be interesting," he commented.

"What do you mean?"

He gave an odd, almost sorrowful smile as he elaborated, "It's been…over twenty years since New York, and this will be the first time we've ever really talked about it."

"Us."

"What?"

"You said 'it'. Really, it's 'us'. This will be the first time we've ever really talked about us." She corrected him gently, and they both felt a warm tremor rippling down their spines at those two simple letters, that one tiny word which held so many great consequences and complications.

"Us," he spoke the word reverently, as if it were some great and powerful magic charm.

She turned her head, resting it gently on his shoulder, but not before he saw the smile on those lovely thin lips. He felt her chest shift against his as she took an unsteady breath (from happiness or fear, he wasn't sure), and he looked up to the starry night sky with a smile of his own.

This was a brave new world. A mere 48 hours ago, he'd thrown everything into this last gamble, had laid it all on the line for the woman currently dancing with him under this lovely summer moon—and in doing so, he'd admitted to himself that Erin Strauss was always worth the risk, always worth the full bet, regardless of the outcome (because any moment with her, however painful, was better than nothing at all), and for the first time ever, he realized that he had truly won.

David was always a bit of a romantic, and at times, his heart made him a fool, but God above, he couldn't ( _finally_  wouldn't) stop his little heart from swelling and twittering with all the endless possibilities.

It could end badly, worse than it had ever been between them. It could end beautifully, in ways deeper and sweeter than they'd ever known. However, in this moment, in this perfectly peaceful and golden moment, it seemed impossible to think that it could ever end at all.

A brave new world and a shining, wide-eyed new companion to share it with. Who knew where they could end up?

_Oh, the places we'll go, bella, now that we're finally free to explore…._

* * *

**May 2013. Vienna, Virginia.**

The only sound in Erin's small study was the steady lapping of David's tongue against her already soaking-wet folds—truly the only sound, because she was currently holding her breath to keep from shrieking. Her hands were gripping the arms of her desk chair as she fought back every urge to grab his head and push that wonderful tongue further, harder, deeper, because ( _of course_ ) he was taunting her, giving her just enough to boil her blood and melt her bones, but not enough to tumble over the edge. He was drawing her out, frustrating her with his teasing flicks and heavy breaths which always made her hips buck involuntarily.

Erin Strauss had an unwritten rule about never bringing work home. She'd broken that rule, and now she was suffering the consequences—though not in an entirely unpleasant way.

Because it was work, she had sequestered herself in the study, away from the rest of the family. Also because it was work, it meant that David had an excuse to join her (she knew what he was doing the instant he'd slipped into her study, closing the door so quietly and asking if she needed anything in such a solicitous tone, his hands lightly massaging the muscles in her neck). And because it was David and because they weren't  _at_  work anymore, it meant that things eventually devolved into their current state—her skirt pushed up over her hips, her underwear somewhere on the floor and his ( _lovely, wonderful, cruel_ ) mouth between her legs.

And while she couldn't deny the effect his physical attentions were having on her, it was the emotional reasoning behind those actions which filled her with the deepest desire—he was trying to take her mind off their current troubles, because he hated seeing her worried and stressed, because he loved her, and what hurt her also hurt him. Tomorrow was the day of reckoning, the day that they'd been dreading for the past two weeks, and her frenetic nervous energy was now bordering on positively manic hysteria, her mind and body crumbling underneath the stress of simply waiting for the other shoe to drop. David had always been better at dealing with apprehension than she was. He was better at compartmentalizing, at staying focused, at learning to let go of the unhelpful angst and anxiety. They both knew this.

So right now he was (quite effectively) distracting her. And what a lovely distraction it was.

David could feel her thigh muscles around him, taunt and tightening like the strings of a violin, quivering as they achingly waited for release. He could feel the breath trapped in her lungs, and he marveled at how quiet she was (because the kids were still wandering the house, just outside that closed door, and there were no pillows for her to muffle her cries, no buffers or barriers to block out the sounds). Erin had never been a quiet person during sex—though she never was much of a talker either, she'd always been very vocal.

Except for now. She was unbelievably quiet, impossibly still. He knew that she was close, so he slowed pace, making luxurious circles with his tongue, taking the time to truly experience the texture, the warmth, the taste of her. She finally breathed, a long, quiet sigh which devolved into a slight hiss as she felt her body rising into its petite mort. A flutter, a breath,  _flash-bang-done_.

He bit and suckled the soft skin of her inner thigh as she slowly spiraled back down to earth. He was going to leave a mark, and she smiled at the thought that she didn't have to care anymore—there was no reason for her to hide his little claims on her body, there was nothing wrong in these tokens, nothing to be ashamed of or to feel guilty about, because he was the only one who saw her, the only one allowed in, and vice versa. Though that was a relatively domestic concept which generally came with most relationships, their strange and strained past made it seem novel and wonderful, because it hadn't always been true for them.

He turned and sat on the floor, leaning back against her chair. She slipped her right leg over his right shoulder and he turned his head to nip and kiss the curve of her knee, his chin smearing her own wetness across her skin, which only reignited the heat between her legs. They simply sat there for a moment, his hands caressing and massaging her calf muscle as her fingers played with his hair.

After a thoughtful pause, Erin spoke, her voice still ragged as she quietly announced, "Tomorrow's my day off—I know the team will be going in, just in case….But I'm staying here."

He nodded, not at all surprised by this—of course she would want to spend the day glued to her children's sides, as if her physical presence would act as a buffer, a shield against all harm. Then he gently ran his hand over his face, removing any lingering evidence of Erin's orgasm as he mused at the strangeness of the moment, at how they could sit here talking about such heavy and serious things while sex still hung in the air, while her taste lingered on his tongue and her blood still hummed from his ministrations. This was how their relationship had changed the most over the past few weeks, and this last week in particular. They talked to one another during sex, talked about deep things, sometimes dark things, talked about their life together, about things that would forever shape and change that life. It was what proved that they were not just fucking anymore. They were  _intimate_ , on more than just a physical level.

"If..." she cleared her throat, found her voice again and continued, "If everything goes well—if nothing happens, there's something I, um...Tuesday will mark my first full year of continuous sobriety. There's a kind of a ceremony, and—I...I would like for you to be there. If you can make it. And if you want to, of course."

Although there weren't any more secrets between them, there were still things that Erin wasn't comfortable talking about with him—her path to sobriety being the number one item on that list. And yet here she was, asking him to be a part of this moment in her life with a quiet shyness that was endearing and heartbreaking all at once ( _if you want to, of course_ —as if he could ever not want to celebrate her successes, as if he could ever willingly be away from her, as if he could ever refuse such a request, when it was couched in such soft and hesitant terms).

"Of course I want to, bella," he replied softly, giving her calf another squeeze as he planted another fierce kiss on her knee. Erin had never been good at sharing herself in general (her body, yes, she shared that easily enough, but her mind and her thoughts and her heart and her soul were things she kept locked away from the world), and she'd never been good at sharing her battle with alcoholism in particular (because she hated sharing the parts that made her weak, the ugly parts, the fallen and damaged parts). David knew this, and he knew what it took for her to open up, and what it meant for her to ask him to be a part of this. He was touched and honored by the request, and he felt his throat tightening with emotion as he added, "I'll be there, no matter what. I promise."

He felt her body relax again at his answer, could hear the soft smile in her voice as she replied, "Thank you."

He merely hummed in response, his fingers still absentmindedly drawing circles on her leg as his mind drifted.

"It's also Christopher's nineteenth birthday," she spoke again, leaning forward as her hand trailed down his neck, into the opening of his button-down shirt, as far down his abdomen as she could reach.

"It is?" He turned his head to look at her, and she saw him piecing together those two bits of information, weaving the untold story.

She hummed in affirmation, kissing his forehead as her hand continued moving beneath his shirt, relishing the warmth of his skin. "He's already decided that he's going to Paul's the night before, and he wants to do dinner at his favorite restaurant the day of his birthday. He has asked if you're coming."

"He wants me to be there?" Now it was David's turn to sound shy and hesitant.

"He does," she replied softly, her tone laced with love and happiness. He was smiling again, and gods, she'd move mountains with her bare hands for that beautiful smile.

"He likes you, you know," she added, dipping her head to lightly graze her teeth across the side of his neck. With a wry grin, she quipped, "Although I still don't think he's forgiven you for killing off his character in whatever horrible video game you two were playing last night."

Her lover gave a nonchalant shrug, "Rules of the street, bella. It was me or him."

She rolled her eyes in exasperation, "Oh, ye gods and little fishes, it was a game—"

"And we were both playing to win," David defended himself. "Besides, if I would have let him win, he would've known it, and he would have hated me for being patronizing."

"This is true," she grinned, kissing the top of his dark head. "You two are very much alike in that respect."

With a soft smile, he admitted, "I like that."

"Like what?"

"I like that we're similar, that you can tell we're alike."

She gave an amused hum, "I thought perhaps you were saying that you liked when I kissed you."

"Well, I like that, too."

"Take me to bed, and I'm sure I can find lots of other things that you'll like as well."

"Why, Chief Strauss, are you propositioning me?"

"Indeed I am, Agent Rossi. Although, it's only really a proposition if there's even a  _possibility_  that the other party will say no."

"You think I'd never say no to you?"

"Not if you know what's good for you."

"Fiery. I like that, too."

"Rules of the street, lover," she quipped, leaning forward again to simply hold him. She liked the solidness of him, the sureness, the stability that seemed at-odds with the daring and reckless man that she knew him to be at times.

He chuckled softly before turning his face towards hers again, and she obliged by leaning in further to meet his mouth with her own. She could taste herself on his lips, and she felt another rush of heat that left her nearly breathless. Gods, how could a mere man make her this crazy?

She knew the answer. She knew it with every fiber of her being, and it only intensified the tightening in her chest. It was the same startling realization that she'd had just a few days earlier, something she'd started taking out of the memory box of her heart and examining in quiet moments, something whose simple knowledge never lost its absolute thrill, something that had waited so patiently for so long, quietly hoping to finally be recognized for all that it was and had been.

Love. Deep, passionate, illogical, nonsensical, unbridled and unwarranted love. Something finite and lasting, grown from the dark earth of something more primal, that first chemical  _zip!_ she'd felt the first time they'd met. That first spark had been mere attraction—the simple first breath of their two souls in unison, greeting each other after such a long time spent apart, recognizing their counterpart  _years_  before the bodies behind them understood the momentousness of the occasion. As they got to know each other, attraction morphed into something else as their bodies slowly began to respond to the things their souls had known from first sight, and it muted again when their hearts finally caught up to the rest. It had always been there, she was certain of that.

The body belonging to the soul which had journeyed so long in search of her own was currently caressing her leg, his dark head turning away from her mouth to leave another trail of kisses on her thigh.

"Mom!" Anna's voice shattered the moment as both adults sat up suddenly.

"Yes, dear," Erin called in response as David rose to his feet. She stood up as well, wriggling her skirt back into its appropriate place.

"I can't find my blue dress. What did you do with it?"

"Did you look in the laundry room?"

"Yes. I've looked  _everywhere_."

With a heavy sigh and an exasperated roll of her eyes (Anna Claire Strauss was notoriously horrible at looking for things, when she said  _everywhere_ , it meant she gave a cursory glance and didn't actually search), Erin moved to the door, casting one last look at David to make sure they both looked presentable.

With a wicked grin, he help up her panties ( _forget something, kitten?_ ).

She blushed and reached for them, but he held them further out of reach.

"Ah-ah-ah," he sing-songed softly. "To the victor belong the spoils."

"Bastard," she muttered, though her eyes were smiling. Then with one last quick kiss, she pulled away, "I have to go be a mother now."

"Well you're certainly one mother I'd like to—"

"Oh dear god, David, really?"

He laughed at her obvious distaste for his juvenile joke (she always was a classy broad, his lover), and she flashed him one last look of feigned disapproval ( _naughty, naughty boy_ ) before opening the door and disappearing in search of Anna's elusive blue dress.

He slipped the lacy fabric into his pocket, his fingers lightly playing with the material as his mind wandered. It was funny, knowing that her undergarments had undergone a dramatic makeover, simply because of his presence in her life, and he liked that, he liked knowing that under the same clothes that she'd worn for years, hidden from everyone else's view, was a new world of lace and satin, a world that she enjoyed sharing with him ( _only_  him, a concept that he truly loved, because for so many years he'd been unable to have her for more than just a few hours, because for so long she always had to return to someone else, to somewhere else, to a life and a place where he did not belong, and now they simply lived in each other's keeping, now their lives had spaces carved for each other, places of rightful belonging, places marked  _for you and you alone, my love_ ).

And though he certainly loved and enjoyed the physical aspect of sharing themselves, the quiet moment in her study had proven that their sharing and their place-carving held something more than just a physical connection. Like some beautiful cosmic tapestry, they'd begun to weave their emotions, their history, their psyches, and their souls into this impassioned pursuit that their bodies had begun so long ago, and the result reached a level of intensity that David had never experienced with any other woman.

They were both changed creatures, he realized with sudden clarity. Over the years, they'd evolved and re-evolved, pushing and pulling against one another as they had struggled against their conflicting personalities (first for dominance, and then simply for a way to work and function in harmony and relative peace), and now, finally, they'd evolved yet again, slipping into place like two well-worn stones, finally smoothed and shaped to fit together as part of a greater whole.

He made her playful again, made her remember that there was still so much to be enjoyed and cherished. She made him reverent again, made him remember what was sacred, what was worth protecting and fighting and dying for. They made each other laugh, although they still carried the deep knowledge of how to make each other cry as well. They made each other sigh, both in good and bad ways. She made him want to be a better person, and he was certain the feeling was mutual.

"David?" She had returned, her warm voice bringing him back to the present as well.

"Yeah, bella?" He looked up to see the bright eyes he loved so well, which were shining with another mutual feeling as she leaned against the door frame, quietly watching him.

"You have exactly two minutes to say goodnight to the others. After that I'm staging a coup d'état."

"That bad, kitten?" He teased, not-so-secretly delighted that she'd reached the level of needy arousal that resorted to threats.

She gave him a single look that shot a bolt of lightning straight through his core, all hunger and want and unvoiced emotions. Then she slowly pushed away from the doorframe, unfastening the first few buttons of her blouse to give the slightest peek (she was wearing a lovely red and black number, how had he missed that when they were getting dressed this morning?).

"You now have one minute thirty seconds," she informed him, pivoting on her heel and disappearing once more.

His grin only deepened as he followed her, quickly giving his good-nights to Jordan and Christopher, who were still in the den, playing a hyper-competitive round of Wii tennis, and to Anna, who was in the kitchen fixing her own nightcap of chocolate milk before going to bed herself.

He entered the bedroom that was now as familiar as his own (he loved that, loved feeling and knowing that he belonged here, moving among Erin's things and through Erin's life with assurance). He found her in the master bathroom, quietly performing her nightly ritual of applying facial crèmes with a serious expression that he always found adorable (Erin Strauss did not play around when it came to skin care, and for some reason that amused him).

He slipped up behind her, hands easily resting on her hips as he lightly kissed the curve of her neck. She didn't stop her ministrations, but she did turn her head slightly, allowing him better access. Once she was finished, she leaned forward (perhaps slightly more than necessary, perhaps just enough to press her ass against his pelvis), grabbing their toothbrushes and applying toothpaste before handing his to him over her shoulder (another thing he loved, having things here that further proved his place in her life and vice versa—he had a toothbrush here, and in the master bathroom at his house, Erin had a toothbrush patiently waiting for her, a little domestic thing that still shone like some kind of victorious symbol for all they'd become and all they'd overcome).

He moved to stand beside her, and they brushed their teeth in silence, though they held a conversation with their eyes and their smiles. David's eyes strayed to the opening of her blouse which had (oh-so-innocently and oh-so-mysteriously) come even further undone, and he gave an appreciative smile at the view. She snapped her fingers and pointed to her face ( _eyes up here, buddy_ ). He gave a slight nod towards her chest ( _you're the one showing off_ ). She simply arched her brow and he winked in response ( _you know you love me, kitten_ ). She shifted slightly, bumping her hip against his own with a rueful smirk ( _heaven help me, I do_ ).

These were the moments he loved—the little moments that reaffirmed the realization that this truly was happening (brushing your teeth together was something for mates, for life partners, for spouses, something so ritualistically mundane and yet so endearingly domestic that you didn't just do that with anyone), the little moments that he'd waited so long to experience, the ones he thought he'd never get to see.

She was putting her toothbrush back in the holder now, dabbing the edges of her mouth with the hand towel as her eyes watched his reflection. She must have noticed his change in thoughts, because she quietly asked, "What's wrong, love?"

_Love_. Another thing, another word that he thought he'd never hear, not from those lips, not from the tongue that he coveted above all others.

He rinsed out his mouth, depositing his toothbrush in the holder as well, and her hand was lightly tracing the small of his back as she waited for him to respond. He turned and looked into her eyes, taking a moment to simply trace the outline of her face, which was starting to fill with concern at his unusual quietness.

"Nothing's wrong, bella," he assured her softly. Offering a small smile, he admitted, "I'm just thinking about all the little things we have—the things I never thought I'd get to have with you. Moments like this."

"You're waxing poetic over dental hygiene?"

He burst into laughter at her skeptical expression, at that poker face that he loved so well, at her practicality, at the fact that ( _of course_ ) Erin Strauss would tease him in such a tender moment, just because it was an easy target and she was never one to rise above a chance to take a passive-aggressive pot-shot.

She grinned as well, pulling his mouth into hers as her hips pressed closer, silently reminding him of exactly why they were here. She started laughing again as his tongue slipped into her mouth, and she had to pull back to regain her composure.

He looked at her in askance, and her eyes were dancing as she barely contained her laughter, "Does my minty-fresh mouth please you, Mr. Rossi?"

Oh, Sweet Jesus, she seriously wasn't going to let this one go.

"It does," he admitted. "Although right now, it's doing too much talking."

She gave a soft hum in response, one that sent a thrill from the tips of his toes to the tops of his shoulder blades. "Perhaps you should do something about that."

This was one of those rare instances in which David Rossi actually took Erin Strauss' advice—one hand moved to the back of that blonde head, pulling that taunting minty-fresh mouth back to his own, as the other hand grabbed her hip, guiding her back against the doorframe. She hit the wooden molding with just enough of a thud to be noticeable, and she gasped in response, which he used to his advantage by foraging deeper into her mouth.

Her hands were moving, unbuttoning his shirt with a blind dexterity that bespoke hours of practice. Now both of his hands were back at the hem of her skirt, sliding the fabric upwards (again), and she was already moaning in response. She was still soaked from his previous endeavors, already so hot and wanting from just a simple kiss, and he could have wept at this as well (because after all the times they'd had one another over the past few weeks, it hadn't sated their need for each other, nor the desire, because if anything, it had only increased their fervor, because after all these years, after everything, she still hadn't tired of him, and she still knew how to touch his soul in a way that no other woman ever could).

She felt this shift in emotion as well, because her hands were cupping his face now, her eyes searching his own as she asked again, "What is it, David? What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

He was lying, and she knew it. He leaned forward again, pressing a soft, reverent kiss where her blonde hair met her forehead. "Ti amo, bella."

In a sudden jolt of clarity, Erin understood that despite her lover's assurances, he was still just as frightened as she was. He'd been so kind and loving, distracting her from the current situation—now it was her turn to repay the favor.

She slipped out of his grasp, easily unzipping her skirt and dropping it to the floor unceremoniously. "Go sit on the bed."

He did as he was told, his face filling with curiosity. She moved to the closet, unfastening the remaining buttons on her blouse and letting it fall to the floor as well before reaching onto the closet shelf to retrieve the other box of lingerie—there was still a little black leather number that she hadn't worn yet (David always made her want to take clothes  _off_ , not put more on, so she hadn't taken the time to dress up lately, not since his birthday). In her bathroom vanity was a collection of oils she hadn't used in a while, and suddenly, an idea was forming in her head. She already knew how his deliciously slippery skin would feel beneath her hands and she felt the heat rising in her chest at the thought.

"How would you like a massage, my love?"

* * *

Erin Strauss should have been an actress, David suddenly decided. She had a level of commitment to her role that would have suited her well in such a profession.

Case in point: when she'd returned from the bathroom, her body so cruelly concealed beneath her robe, she'd brought an assortment of oils and lotions with her and immediately slipped into the role of masseuse ( _please lie down, Mr. Rossi, let me see where the stress is_ ). And though she had him face-down on the bed, her now-slippery thighs straddling his bare back as her (very agile and able) fingers worked away the tension in his shoulders, she still was dedicated to her role—when his hand slipped up the curve of her hip, she gave it a light spat as she reprimanded, "Please allow me to work, Mr. Rossi."

_Please, Mr. Rossi_. Of course this only made him want her more. She knew this, because he could hear the smug satisfaction in her voice as she purred, "Patience is a virtue, remember?"

"I'm not a virtuous man, remember?"

She hummed in amused agreement, leaning forward, her silk robe sticking to his wet skin as she whispered in his ear, "Trust me, I know exactly what kind of man you are, my darling."

She sat back again, making a small tutting noise as she looked down at her dressing gown, "You've made me get oil all over my robe."

"Such a pity," his tone belied his words.

"I suppose I'll have to take it off."

"I suppose you will."

He felt her raise up slightly, heard the whisper of the fabric as it slipped off her skin, saw a brief flash of grey as she tossed it aside. He felt the warmth of her thighs settling back, closer to his skin, as her hands resumed their work.

He still hadn't seen what was underneath the robe, so he asked the age-old query, "What are you wearing?"

"A highly inappropriate question, Mr. Rossi." He laughed at her prim tone, at how easily she played her part as the unaffected and aloof professional (especially when he could tell by the slow, luxurious movements of her fingers that she was enjoying this just as much as he was).

She was sliding further down, pushing and rolling the muscles of his lower back. He gave a small hum of approval as he drowsily informed her, "You're very good at this, Miss Strauss."

"Thank you." She replied simply, though he could hear that she was pleased by his compliment. A contented silence ensued. She shifted again, her hands traveling further down, and suddenly her teeth were on the bare skin of his ass, with just enough pressure to make him jump.

"What was that?"

"You were drifting. I wanted to bring you back to the present moment," she answered easily. There was a grin in her voice as she added, "Besides, you happen to have an adorable ass, Mr. Rossi."

"My ass is not adorable."

"Actually, it is. Especially for a man of your age."

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

Her hands were moving again, applying more oil to the muscles of his thighs as she simply replied, "It means what it means."

"Are you calling me old?"

"Did I  _say_  you were old?"

He gave a slight huff, knowing that she'd found her loophole, and though he couldn't see her face, he could feel that she was smiling.

"I happen to have a thing for older men," she confessed (as if that were any secret).

"Do you now?"

"Mm-hmm." She was at his feet now, hitting pressure points with deep rolls of her fingers as she quietly asked, "Is there anywhere else that you feel tension, Mr. Rossi? Any areas you would like for me to pay special attention to?"

Oh, God above, she really was going to play this one to the teeth.

Fine. Two could play this game. "Well, now that you mention it—"

"Yes?"

"My chest feels very tight."

"I see." She was crawling back up the bed, tapping his side lightly, "Roll over for me please, Mr. Rossi."

He gladly obliged, his grin deepening as he saw her outfit for the first time—a black leather bra and ruffled grey shorts that seemed to bring out the golden hue of her skin. "Is leather really appropriate for massages?"

"Well, I  _was_  wearing a robe—which you ruined, remember?"

"Yes. Such a shame."

She simply shook her head in feigned sadness at the lost robe, applying more oil to her hands and rubbing them together to warm it. She leaned forward, barely grazing her hands over his chest before she stopped, keeping her face completely serious as she spoke, "I'm sorry, but I really can't do my work at this angle. Would you be too uncomfortable if I straddled you again, Mr. Rossi?"

He fought back a grin, trying to play along as best he could, "No, not at all, Miss Strauss. Please, do whatever you need to."

She gave a small smug smile (as if she didn't know the answer long before she asked the question) as she easily swung her leg over his hip, keeping her own hips raised just enough to not touch his cock, which was already so hard and wanting. She leaned in again, this time putting more weight into the movements of her hands, rolling forward in a familiar rocking motion as she oh-so-innocently spoke, "Would you mind holding me steady? It's so very easy to get caught off balance, in a position like this."

His hands went to her hips, lightly feathering the ruffles of her shorts, moving upwards to appreciate the smooth leather which was made so much more enjoyable by the soft, pliant breasts underneath.

"Mr. Rossi, that's very inappropriate," she breathed, kicking her voice up a notch in a Marilyn-esque pitch (after all, he always called her kitten, why shouldn't she act like one, just for tonight?). She sat back, reaching for the oil again, and he could feel the heat from her center seeping through the fabric of her shorts, onto his abdomen, and he grabbed her hips again, dragging her further down, to the place where she should be, without the barrier of fabric. She stifled a moan and lifted her hips away again. Still, his hands were clutching her ass and she pushed into the grip, arching her back as she massaged his chest again, her hands trailing across his shoulders, over his biceps as she bit her lip at how scintillating his skin felt beneath her slick fingers.

She took a moment to simply look at the man beneath her, with his shining eyes and glistening skin, and she felt her breath catch in her throat at the realization that he was hers—wholeheartedly, unabashedly, unwaveringly hers. And to add to the fire humming in her veins, she also knew that she was his, just as deeply and passionately.

He'd been so wonderfully patient, so willing to play this little game, and she loved him all the more for it. The thing about games is that they eventually must end—and when they were played well, the players should be rewarded.

Bracing her hands on the mattress, on either side of his shoulders, she lowered her mouth to his nipple, giving a slow, teasing lick as she lowered her hips, rubbing against his hardness. This earned her a low moan from her lover, and she grinned in delight at knowing that she still could turn this man into a puddle of want and need, after so many years and transformations. Her mouth continued its journey across his skin, to his neck, to the curve of his jaw, to his hot, moaning mouth, as his hands wandered the planes of her body, back up her ribcage to her breasts—this time, she didn't push him away, but let him sample and knead the flesh.

"I think I'd like to see you in more leather," he admitted huskily, and she grinned wickedly before recapturing his mouth with her own.

"Thigh-high boots and a riding crop?" She guessed, and he gave a growl of pleasure at the thought, his hands back on her hips, pulling her against his own.

"As if I could ever be so cruel," she shook her head with feigned sadness. "I would never be able to torture you, my darling."

"You're torturing me now,  _darling_ ," he reminded her, and she pretended to be shocked at his words.

"Why, David Rossi, I'm doing no such thing." She sat back on her heels again, raising up and pulling the crotch of her shorts to the side with one hand and she slowly guided him inside of her with the other, "Does this feel like torture to you?"

He made a sound in response and she commented, "That is not the noise someone makes when they're being tortured, my love."

She took a moment simply to enjoy the fullness of having him inside of her before she instructed him, "Don't move."

He simply held up his hands, which she clasped with her own, using them as a brace to balance herself. And although her hips remained still, he felt her silky walls rippling against his cock, saw the slight hitch in her abdomen as her kegel muscles continued with their pace. She was biting her lip in concentration, slight sheens of oil catching the light on her arms and her stomach, hair messy and falling in her face, and David thought it couldn't be possible for him to want this woman any more than he did in this moment.

"It's been awhile since I've done this," she admitted, still slightly distracted by her endeavors.

"Well, I'm certainly not complaining."

This earned him a breathless chuckle. He let go of her hand, bringing his own hand to the warm, slick place where their bodies met, his finger easily finding the swollen bud of her clit. He felt her walls clench involuntarily at the contact, and she tried to push his hand away, "No, David, I want…this—this is for you."

Her selflessness was endearing, but David tended to think of sex as a full-contact sport—he wasn't used to simply lying still. Luckily, his lover seemed to understand, because she sifted slightly, leaning over to grab the bottle of oil. She wore an amused grin as she sat back slightly, positioning herself so that she didn't need to hold his hands for balance.

"Here," she poured some oil into his open palms. "Something to keep you occupied."

He grinned in response, and she quickly added, "You can do whatever you want—just don't move your hips. And don't move mine."

"Aye, aye, kitten," he replied, relishing the curve of her outer thighs. "I like it when you get all bossy."

She gave a wry hum, "I'll remember that the next time you start bitching about my orders at work."

"Only because I like making you angry."

"Yes, you do," she agreed. Then she resumed her movements, concentrating on isolating her pelvic floor muscles (gods, they weren't kidding when they said  _use it or lose it_ , though she had more control that she thought she would, after so many years of not using this particular skill—the last few years, she'd usually been too drunk during sex to really engage in this kind of activity).

David's hands were on her stomach now, and she leaned forward, her own hands slipping across his already-slick chest. She stayed there a moment, still working her inner muscles as she adjusted to this new angle. David gave a small hum of pleasure at the pressure and tightness afforded by this shift, as his fingers slipped beneath the underwire of her bra, pressing into the supple flesh, rubbing the oil on his fingertips onto the nipples that were already so hard and responsive to his touch. His lover hissed as he pinched her taunt flesh between his fingers, her mouth landing on his chest. He felt her teeth again, grazing his flesh, silently encouraging his kneading fingers by pressing her breasts further into his hands.

She took a moment to simply rest her head on his chest, shaking her blonde head as she gave slight chuckle.

"Getting a workout, kitten?" David guessed.

"Yes," she sat back again, easing some of the strain on her muscles. "I'm afraid your kitten isn't quite as spry as she used to be."

Despite her self-deprecation, she didn't stop her movements, each contraction starting to send a ripple through David's body.

He closed his eyes, his fingertips tracing patterns on the backs of her thighs as he smiled at the memory of times gone by, "If I remember correctly, you did this when we were in New York."

"If you remember correctly." There was a smirk in her voice. "As if you could forget, David Rossi."

"That night was pretty memorable."

"Pretty memorable? It was fucking mind-blowing."

"It was mind-blowing fucking."

She laughed at the quip, though her laughter quickly dissipated at she closed her eyes and concentrated on pushing her muscles to keep contracting against his cock—she loved the fullness, the way her muscles could feel him throbbing inside of her, the way his fingers pressed into the flesh of her hips, the quiet intensity of the moment.

David felt the tension building from the soles of his feet, receding all the way up to his shoulders, and Erin could sense it, too, because she was shifting forward again, her hands pressing into the flesh of his chest, giving him better access to clutch at her hips, her breasts, the curve of her waist (god, it took every ounce of self-control not to just grab her hips and slam her down onto him, as deeply as he could go, but past experience had taught him that this was something well worth the wait). His eyes were open again, and so were hers, green locking onto brown, no sound but the unsteady breaths of both partners, which filled the air with a heavy heat, only increasing the electric feel of their skins.

She gave a slight whimper of relief when she felt him trembling inside of her, slowing down the rippling of her inner muscles as she prolonged the moment of release, biting her lip again as she watched that handsome face (gods, the things she would do for this man, to this man, just to see that expression). David felt himself come slowly, pulling further into that silky channel which teased every drop from him, as a full delicious golden wave rumbled across his entire body, leaving him feeling completely drained, bones melted in the best of ways. Erin kept going, making sure that David was truly finished, and he simply returned his hand to her apex, and she gasped again, responding with a tightness that sent another aftershock of pleasure through his own body.

"David, this is—"

"This is for me, I know." He assured her, his breathing still ragged from his own orgasm. "Trust me—this is very much for me, too."

He pressed harder, and her hips bucked involuntarily, her fingers gripping his upper shoulders as she tried to steady herself. He was still inside of her, though she felt him receding, slipping away, but it didn't stop the absolute heat the shot through her core with every movement of his fingers. David might always be quiet whenever he came, but Erin certainly wasn't—she clapped her hand over her mouth to smother her own moans (and David silently decided that once this whole Replicator thing was behind them, he'd take her away, somewhere that she could make as much noise as she wanted to, without having to worry about kids or neighbors or agents in SUVs outside their door). She came quickly, her tired muscles shuddering with release and relief before she lifted off her lover's hips and collapsed on the bed beside him.

There was a moment of heavy-breathed silence.

"I'm old." She declared.

"You're a tiger."

"An old tiger."

"That kind of talk is not allowed in this bed, kitten." He simply reached over and gave her hip a smack.

She gave a slight jump at the contact, "David!"

"You've still got good reaction time, for an old tiger."

She hummed in response. After another beat, she announced, "We need to change the sheets."

He grinned in agreement—they were smeared with oil. He sat up, taking a moment to lean over the glossy-skinned woman on the mattress, "We need to wash this oil off our skin as well."

Her own lips curled into a mischievous smirk as she understood the meaning of his words, "Why, Mr. Rossi, I believe you have a point."

"I always have a point." He reminded her, dipping down to kiss the tip of her nose.

"Yes, but this one's actually a  _good_  point."

He gave her hip another pop as he rolled out of bed, and she half-heartedly kicked her leg out at him, missing him completely. He grabbed her ankle and jerked her to the edge of the bed, which made her give a small yip of surprise. He leaned over her again, his hands easily resting on the curve of her waist, which felt even softer with its generous coating of oil.

She simply smiled up at him, her eyes burning with amusement and something profounder and solider than adoration—love. Sweet, deep, unbelievably erotic love.

"Did you enjoy your massage, Mr. Rossi?" Her voice was so wickedly innocent.

"It was exactly what I needed," he assured her huskily, capturing her mouth with his own again.

"Good," she purred, taking a moment to trace the outline of his face with her fingers. She sat up, pushing him towards the master bathroom, "You run the bath; I'll change the sheets."

He turned to go and she reached out, quickly smacking his ass.

"Erin Strauss!"

She was completely unrepentant, merely giving him a seductive wink, "I told ya, lover—you've got an adorable ass."

"You are a lecherous old woman," he informed her haughtily.

"I prefer the term 'salacious'. Just rolls off the tongue so much more easily." She shot him one last heated look over her shoulder as he disappeared into the bathroom with a laugh. Turning back to the bed, she stripped off the sheets and tossed them aside, going back to the closet to grab a clean set.

She heard the water running and felt the warmth of her lover's body as he returned to stand behind her while she finished tucking the fitted sheet around the corner of the bed. His hands were slipping up the line of her spine, easily unhooking her bra. Her shorts soon followed, and she was already feeling the first stirrings between her thighs as her body responded to his touch again (gods, they were a couple of teenagers, how could they be this easily aroused, so completely insatiable, so hopelessly and helplessly enamored with each other, after so many years and so many times?).

"How did we survive before?" She asked hazily, leaning back to relish the feel of his bare chest pressing against her bare back (that was all it took, really, the sensation of his skin on hers, although the slick sheen between them only intensified the delicious feeling).

"Before?"

"When we only had a single night…and went years in-between," she clarified, breathing deeply as his hands snaked around to her breasts.

"I honestly don't know."

"Me either."

"But I do know that I'm glad we're past that."

She hummed in agreement. "Me, too."

David contemplated her question, even after they had slipped into the bathtub, the warm water flushing Erin's skin an even deeper shade as they helped each other wash away the remnants of the oil. He truly didn't know how they survived all the cold, lonely nights in-between—though he supposed that it was the reason behind so many of their darkest arguments and their saddest moments.

But that was then. This was now. And now, the mother of his second son was lounging at the opposite end of the large tub, her eyes dancing as he felt her foot slowly slip up the side of his inner thigh, and his heart was certain that it could absolutely burst with happiness at the golden quietness of this moment.

And from the corner of the granite counter, his toothbrush shone happily in its holder, leaning against hers in a picture perfect domestic bliss, a silent reminder that this was certainly something more than it had ever been.


	41. The Masque of Queens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The names of Thomas Yates' victims mentioned in this chapter are names actually taken from the list that Rossi holds in 7.22 'Profiling 101'. I tried to use victims whose locations were not specifically mentioned, but if I place someone where they're not supposed to be, pardon my mistake.

__ "The Spindle is now a turning;  
The Moon it is red, and the Stars are fled,  
But all the Sky is a burning." 

_ ~Ben Jonson, The Masque of Queens, Celebrated from the House of Fame. _

* * *

**June 2013. Vienna, Virginia.**

David could feel Erin's quiet eyes on him as he finished buttoning up his shirt—she had been watching him all morning, however, whenever he glanced over at her, she would immediately avert her gaze. She wasn't exactly a bright, chipper person most mornings, but today she was deathly quiet, her worry and fear and fatigue brooding over her, permeating the air in the room with an anxious dread. She was trying to pretend to read her book, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose, but she hadn't turned a page in almost half an hour, and her bottom lip had been so abused by her nervous teeth that it was close to bleeding.

She hadn't slept last night—he'd felt her leave the bed several times, and though he'd wanted to follow her, to quietly assure her that it was going to be alright, he knew (perhaps better than most) that Erin Strauss was like a cat at times. She needed to be alone with her thoughts, to heal her own wounds in the quiet solitude of her mind, because when people tried to reassure her, she felt the compulsive need to pretend that their assurances were working, because she didn't want to seem stubborn or ungrateful for the kindness (and maybe also because she was a raging masochist), when in reality, those comforting words usually only drove her closer to hysteria.

He quietly returned to the bed, sitting on the edge next to her feet. She studiously kept her gaze focused on the book propped up on her knees, which were nearly tucked into her chest, and he could tell from the skittering rise and fall of her breathing that she was holding back tears now.

In all the years that he'd known her, all the times that he'd seen her survive brutal shoot-outs and hostile takedowns, dead bodies and desecrated victims, he'd never seen her so unhinged. It frightened him, seeing her so close to the edge of something so obviously dangerous, and it also angered him, knowing that some sick bastard had pushed her to this state, knowing that this UNSUB had used her greatest fears against her, turning her into the epitome of everything that she'd tried so hard not to be—weak, afraid, uncertain, irrational, helpless, driven mad by worry and dread, spiraling out of control with no way to end this hellish ride until the Replicator decided that it was over.

"Bella," he spoke softly, and her bruised bottom lip quivered in response. Still, his lover was always one to put up a valiant fight. She set her book aside, her legs shifting into an Indian-style position as she leaned forward and gently took his wrist, buttoning his shirt cuffs with a domestic tenderness that was heartbreaking in a moment like this.

She was trying to pretend as if nothing was wrong, and yet every fiber of her being was screeching with fear.

He couldn't leave her. Not like this.

He gently reached forward and slipped her glasses off her face, and she finally looked up to meet his gaze, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Tenderly cupping the sides of her face with his hands, he pulled her forward, kissing her forehead, the tip of her nose, her mouth (yep, she'd bitten her lip hard enough to draw blood, probably without even realizing it, because all she could think about was their son and his safety).

"I've never been so scared in all my life," she breathed, closing her eyes at her confession.

"Me neither," he admitted softly, and her hands went up, grasping his wrists in response.

"It's going to be OK," she didn't sound very convinced, and he knew that she was trying to be brave.

"It's going to be OK," he repeated, trying to be emphatic enough for both of them. A beat passed as he tried to remind himself that he was leaving her in the care of half a dozen highly-trained agents. "You've still got your service weapon here, right?"

She gave him an incredulous look—as if that question wasn't even worth answering—and leaned back, one hand slipping into the space between the edge of the mattress and the headboard, reappearing to produce a sleek Glock Model 22.

He grinned, "That's my girl."

Another dubious look. "I think I'm a little long in the tooth to be referred to as your  _girl_ , my love."

"Now, what did I tell you about that kind of talk?" He gave her a severe look, and she rolled her eyes with a smile. He was trying to distract her again, trying to make her laugh before he had to go away, and she loved him for it, for all his gentle little concernities, for all the ways he showed the true compassion of his heart, for all the ways he loved her.

She returned her gun to its hiding place, and he returned her glasses to her open palm.

"It's going to be OK," he reminded her.

She gave a curt nod of agreement, her green eyes locking onto his brown ones, "It's going to be OK."

He stood and grabbed the rest of his things, heading for the front door, and she followed (and he grinned at the simple joy of knowing what her bare feet sounded like, padding across the wood floors in the early morning, with her hair still mussed from the night before and his shorts on her hips, her skin still glowing and warm and deliciously sleepy). She rolled up on the balls of her feet to give him one last kiss before sending him out the door with a slight wave and an almost-shy smile, because she knew that the protective detail certainly recognized the dark-haired man leaving her house (the same familiar face that had stayed over almost every night for the past week). And she knew that perhaps she should have been more secretive, should have been more cautious, but gods dammit, they'd wasted too much time dancing around other people and other people's rules and opinions, and so what if the agents in her driveway thought that she was being improper? What the hell did they know, anyway?

He offered a smile and a wave of his own as he walked to his car, his mind still rolling and tumbling with all the mixed emotions that had been a part of every waking moment of his life for the past two way or another, today would be a major factor in the Replicator case. And in less that twenty-four hours, this strange little section of this even stranger little game would come to an end.

The only problem was that David wasn't sure that he would be grateful for the conclusion. Or for whatever may come after it.

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia.**

_June 1. Double Dare. Flip a Coin. Do you dare? Which one will you choose? One of these is not like the other ones..._

Dr. Spencer Reid's mind was like a car in a high-powered car wash as these thoughts and questions bombarded his brain, their noise and fervor overpowering everything else as he simply sat at his desk, waiting for the phone to ring.

Two weeks ago, an item was left at three of Thomas Yates' former drop sites—one for each son, a token to show just how close the Replicator could get to the ones they loved the most. Today was the eight-week mark since they'd first started down this particular path, which began with the invisible ink letter, and Spencer had informed the local authorities to check each location today for another set of clues.

So why wasn't the phone ringing yet? Why hadn't they found anything, why hadn't they called to say yea or nay?

He was missing something. He knew it, he felt it tingling across the nerve endings in his skin, sensed it with every ounce of premonition and every fiber of his being.

But knowing that he was missing something and knowing what he was missing were two totally different beasts.

The phone still hadn't rung. What on earth could be taking them so long? He knew that he should be grateful—surely it meant that they were carefully searching every square inch of the dump sites, that they wouldn't miss a single clue or overlook any potential evidence, but good grief, the waiting was absolutely killing him. He hadn't been this nervous and fidgety since his first date with Maeve.

Maeve. He couldn't think about her right now, because he'd fall back into that sad place of pain and loss and never knowing, and he could miss something.

Something  _else_. Obviously, he was already missing something.

Desperate to distract himself, he glanced down at his cell phone—he should probably text Jordan, just to make sure that she'd actually gone to her mother's house, like she'd promised that she would. He knew that Christopher would be there, surrounded by federal agents, just like Henry and Jack, and it was the safest place for her to be. Right now, Spencer Reid couldn't deal with the possibility of losing another person, and knowing that she was safe would take some of the edge off.

He sent a quick text message, and by the time she'd replied back, confirming that she was 'on lock down', the phone at his desk was ringing.

"Behavioral Analysis Unit, Dr. Spencer Reid speaking," he answered quickly.

"Dr. Reid, it's Chief Reyes, from Carlin." The tone didn't sound promising. "We've been out at the site for hours—there's nothing new, no clues or anything."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry."

"Me, too." Reid replied simply.

"I've got a couple of officers waiting at the site, just in case your guy tries to leave anything later on. And we'll look again in the morning as well."

Spencer bit his tongue to keep back the retort that none of these things would be of any use, because if the Replicator were going to leave a clue, he certainly wouldn't do it in front of police officers and he certainly wouldn't do it a day later, because this UNSUB was meticulous about his timetable—he knew that Chief Reyes was merely extending a professional courtesy, a kind but ultimately useless show of solidarity towards the BAU.

"Thank you, Chief," he found himself saying in his most neutral tone. "Please let us know if anything turns up."

"Sure thing, Dr. Reid."

With a frustrated sigh, he slipped the phone back into its cradle.

"Nothing yet?"

He turned to see Penelope's anxious face, already filled with the knowledge of her question's answer but still hoping beyond hope that she was wrong.

"Nothing yet," he confirmed sadly.

"He has to leave some kind of message," Penelope stepped forward, her fingers lightly playing with the collection of bangles at her wrist. "I mean, that was what this whole eight-week thing was about, wasn't it? You can't build up and then not have an actual event…can you?"

"Honestly? He can do anything he wants." Reid gave another heavy sigh as he turned away from her again. "It's his game—we still don't even know what the rules are."

He squinted as he looked down at an 8x10 map, which had the six locations marked—the three that had clues, the three that didn't.

He thought back to his conversation with Chief Strauss just a few days earlier. If this was a deflection, then this was technically where the Replicator  _wanted_  their attention to be focused, which meant that their attention  _needed_  to be focused elsewhere.

But where? There were too many possibilities, too many pieces moving across the board.

Moving pieces. That should probably mean something. It didn't, but it should.

The phone rang again, and Spencer steeled himself for more bad news.

_Flip a coin, do you dare? Three boys, one choice, which one do you choose? What's the prize if you win, what's the cost if you lose? Look here, says the magician, but no, he's not a magician, he's a tactician—deflect, advance, take the queen and kill the king…flip a coin, do you dare? Three boys, one choice, which do you choose?_

"Behavioral Analysis Unit, Dr. Reid speaking."

_Speaking, not thinking, and missing, missing, missing…what is the piece that needs to fall into place?_

* * *

Dora Carrington knew what the envelope meant—no return address, simply directed to the BAU. However this was different because it had the added line of  _Attention: Section Chief Erin Strauss_.

With shaking hands, she dialed a number that she knew by heart, holding her breath as she heard a ringtone once...twice...

"Strauss."

"Erin, it's Carrington."

"We got something in the mail, didn't we?" The dreadful certainty in her boss' voice was filled with such anxious anticipation that Carrington knew it wasn't actually a question.

"Yes, ma'am. And it's specifically addressed to you."

There was a pause as Erin contemplated the meaning behind this. Then she asked, her voice careful and quiet, "And is there a return address?"

"None. But the postmark is D.C."

Carrington heard Erin release her breath slowly, as if she were trying to remain calm.

The younger woman felt another pang of sympathy for her boss, for the woman who'd always seemed so strong and unshakable until two weeks ago, for the person whom she now knew could feel fear just as easily as the rest.

"Do you want...I-I can bring it to you." Carrington wasn't sure what else to say, but she meant the compassion behind her words. She knew that Erin actually lived in the same neighborhood as she did (she'd gotten too drunk to drive at last year's Christmas party, and Erin had driven her home, citing that it wasn't any trouble because they only lived a few blocks apart).

"You'd do that?" Erin's tone was oddly hopeful, almost filled with soft amazement at this fact.

"Of course," Carrington replied, simply and emphatically, as if there never should have been any doubt on this subject (and really, there shouldn't, because Dora Carrington had spent the last eight years of her professional life taking care of Erin Strauss in a thousand little ways, with the respect and devotion of a true Girl Friday).

"Then, would you please? I'll let the security detail know that we're expecting you."

"I'm on my way out the door right now, Erin."

"And Carrington?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

The younger woman could have sworn that she heard tears in Erin's voice.

"You're welcome," she said softly. She hung up the phone, shaking her head gently at the thought that Erin Strauss was always so oblivious—she had so many people who would gladly be her friend, if only she let them.

* * *

**Vienna, Virginia.**

Carrington didn't even have a chance to ring the doorbell—the door immediately flew open, and she knew that Erin must have been waiting by the window for her arrival.

"Did you open it?" Her boss didn't waste time with pleasantries.

"N-no," the younger woman immediately handed the envelope over to Erin. "I didn't think I should."

Erin nodded quickly. Then she suddenly remembered her manners, "Please, come in."

"Oh, I don't want to impose, I mean, if you—"

"Carrington, stop being so fucking Martha Stewart and get inside."

Ah, there was the Strauss whom she knew so well. Carrington quickly obeyed, and Erin led her into the kitchen.

"It's a lovely home," the brunette took a moment to admire her surroundings. Then her usual razor wit returned as she dryly asked, "I'm sorry, was that too fucking Martha Stewart?"

Erin gave a slight chuckle at the barb—after all, she deserved it. Carrington had been so kind to bring this package, and she'd been her usual brusque and dismissive self, gods help her.

"I'm sorry. I'm a little on-edge—"

"I'd be concerned if you weren't on-edge, Erin. And don't you dare apologize."

"Coffee?"

"I don't think I'll stay that long. Unfortunately, I need to get back to the office soon. I just wanted to make sure that you were holding up OK."

Strauss seemed to find that amusing for some reason, because the corners of her mouth flickered into the briefest of smirks. Then she glanced down at the strangely-shaped package in her hands, "What do you think it is?"

"I'm honestly not sure," Carrington frowned, sitting on a bar stool with an odd sense of familiarity as Erin moved to the opposite side of the kitchen island, reaching over to take a small paring knife from the wood block.

"And you're certain that it was delivered this morning—not last night?"

"Well, I can't say with any definite certainty, but I think so—it wasn't waiting on my desk when I got in, so if it came in last night, then it was very, very late."

They stopped at the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. Jordan appeared, clad in pajama bottoms and a tank top, very surprised to see Dora Carrington sitting in her mother's kitchen.

"Um…hello." The eldest Strauss daughter took a moment to observe the whole scene.

"Hey, Jordan," Carrington smiled softly, and Erin noticed that her secretary actually blushed.

Her daughter's hand was fingering the dip of her collar bone, as if she were playing with an invisible necklace, her voice quivering slightly as her eyes stayed locked onto Carrington, "What are you doing here? Did…did something happen? Is-should I get Chris, or…?"

"No, nothing's happened," Erin said quickly, resisting every urge to push away the package resting at her fingertips (that would only catch Jordan's attention, and her child wasn't an idiot). "Carrington was just dropping something off for me."

"Something that couldn't wait until Monday?" Jordan seemed incredulous.

"Well, we are talking about the Federal Bureau of Investigation," Carrington picked up her boss' lie easily, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smile. "Efficiency is our middle name—we wouldn't want to lose a single minute that could be spent on our usual red-tape."

Jordan grinned at the quip before quietly moving towards the coffee pot. Again, Erin noticed that Dora's blue eyes still followed Jordan's movements.

"Coffee, Carrington?" Jordan asked conversationally, not even bothering to look over her shoulder.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"You won't be staying that long?" She guessed.

"No," the brunette smiled softly. Jordan turned to face her again, and something unreadable passed through her green eyes before she simply nodded.

"Well, it was nice seeing you again," Erin's daughter smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"You, too," Carrington gave a small, curt nod. Jordan disappeared into the living room, and Erin waited a beat before speaking.

"She can't know about this."

"Erin, I hate to break it to you, but I'm fairly certain she already knows that we're lying." The brunette informed her. "Your daughter's a pretty quick girl."

"How do you know?" The words tumbled out of Erin's mouth before she could stop them.

"What?"

"How do you know that Jordan's a pretty quick girl?" She'd started down this path, she might as well see it through.

"Well, she knew enough about Bureau protocol to call me and get me to arrange for her access into the building when Christopher was first taken into protective custody. And besides, it's hard for me to imagine that your children would be anything less than bright." Gods dammit, Dora Carrington was such a beautiful liar—how easily she answered, how convincingly nonchalant she seemed, how masterfully she deflected by adding a joke at the end, how brilliantly she furthered her response's verity by looking straight into Erin's eyes.

Of course, that's where she messed up. Because although Erin Strauss had never considered herself a behavioral analyst, she'd been around enough of them to tell when a person was trying to seem innocent—doing all the right things, being  _overly_  innocent, being too calm and too well-rehearsed.

Still, Erin didn't point out these obvious clues. Instead, she simply said, "Oh. Of course."

"Well, I really ought to get back to Quantico," Carrington's long legs swung around as she pushed herself off the bar stool and back onto her feet.

"Don't you want to see what's in the envelope?" Erin asked.

The younger woman stopped, visibly shocked by the question. She stepped back towards her boss hesitantly, "I…I thought you wouldn't want me to. I thought—"

"Carrington." Erin stopped her with a gentle reprimand. "You've been by my side through all of this. I think the least I can do it trust you enough to open this in front of you."

This earned her the brightest smile that she'd ever seen.

"Thank you, Erin," Carrington said softly.

"No, thank  _you_ ," Erin held up the envelope again, silently reminding the younger woman that she was the one who'd driven almost an hour to deliver this package.

Picking up the paring knife again, Erin took a deep breath as she sliced open the edge of the envelope—it was a simple manila envelope, lined with bubble wrap, with two small items enclosed, each wrapped in tissue paper.

Erin gingerly took the two items out of the envelope, setting them on the counter top before gently unwrapping them.

Carrington leaned over, her face scrunched in confusion as she softly whispered, "What the hell…"

"Chess pieces," Erin answered, her voice equally quiet as she pulled away the tissue paper. Though the pieces were two different colors, they were obviously from the same set—their beautiful detailing was exquisite, their hues rich and glossy. Erin picked them up, her thumb gently brushing over their smooth surfaces, their weight so oddly balanced and reassuring in her palm.

A grey knight and a red queen.

What the hell could they possibly mean?

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia.**

"All three dump sites have been combed by local authorities—there were no clues left behind at any of these locations." Aaron Hotchner took a moment to let his gaze flicker over the rest of the team, who were seated around the conference room table.

"And no one has received any other zugzwang taunts, either here or at home?" Derek Morgan was certain that he already knew the answer to his question, because he knew that they were all smart enough to mention something like that.

"No, but our postman doesn't drop off the mail until afternoon," JJ pointed out. "If he's sending something to one of our houses, we might not get it for several more hours."

"The agents on the security detail have been instructed to inspect any and all items coming into the houses today," Hotch added.

"But what about the rest of us?" Penelope piped up. "We don't have agents at our homes, and if a taunt sent to one of us is a taunt for all of us, then he could simply send something to a house that isn't under direct surveillance."

Alex turned back to Spencer, "That would fall in line with your whole deflection theory."

"It isn't big enough," the younger man pointed out quietly with a small shake of his head. "He wouldn't need to distract us to send something via post."

"It's too anticlimactic," Rossi agreed with a frown. "This guy loves showing off, loves a big dramatic move—sending an envelope to our front door after eight weeks of mind games just isn't his style."

"Unless the whole point of this exercise was just to prove how much smarter he is," Morgan leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table in front of him. "Think about it—he spends two whole months making us run around like chickens with our heads cut off, sends our fear and anxiety levels through the roof by threatening our kids, and then he simply fades away. We go crazy just waiting for the other shoe to drop—what better way to prove his control than by simply never dropping the other shoe?"

"I hope you're right," Hotch admitted quietly. "But that's not a chance that we can afford to take. Not with the boys."

"I'm not willing to take that chance, either," Morgan reassured him. "But I'm just saying, if nothing happens today, then it might not be because we missed something—it might be because that was part of his plan all along."

Everyone nodded in agreement, all silently hoping with every fiber of their being that Morgan's theory would come true.

Alex looked over at Spencer again—he was really starting to concern her, the way he kept drifting out of the discussion (she didn't know how she knew that he was drifting, but she could sense it, could sense that his mind was elsewhere, that he wasn't  _with_  them). Right now, his brow was furrowed in concentration as his dark eyes kept darting from one location to the next on the large map of Thomas Yates' dump sites, which was still in the corner of the room.

She leaned over, careful not to interrupt the rest of the team's brainstorming session as she quietly asked, "What is it?"

"I don't know," he answered slowly, never letting his eyes leave the map. "And that's what bothers me."

* * *

**Rural Virginia.**

Well, their precious boy genius hadn't figured it out yet—such a sad thing, especially since John Curtis had dumbed it down as much as he could without sending a handwritten copy of his plans straight to  _Doctor_  Reid's desk.

He wondered if Erin had received her gift—he knew that she would soon enough, because he'd watched the security feed (which he'd hacked into just last week) and he knew that her faithful little secretary had gotten the package and left the building (surely Lassie would bring the message to her trusty owner). But if Spencer Reid didn't figure out the rest of the game, then Erin's clues wouldn't matter.

He looked down at his now-incomplete chess set, the one which he'd bought himself last Christmas. He hated how strange and off-balance the board looked now, but it was worth the minor aesthetic inconvenience.

For the first time, John Curtis was actually trying to help the BAU catch up—he was trying to show them exactly which roles they would all play in the grand finale, trying to help them understand the ending before it happened (because they certainly wouldn't be able to reflect on what happened afterwards).

If only they would find the damn clues.

There was a reason that he'd chosen six of Thomas Yates' former dump sites—three to leave the deflection of the boys, and three to give his final three puzzle pieces. Continuing the chess motif, he'd even selected the sites according to their locations—one state diagonal to Holly Vaughner's site lay Bristol Evatt's site, and there he had placed the shale grey queen. Two states over and one state down from Chloe Cheswitt's site was the location where Courtney Shandon's body was discovered. There, he'd left the other shale grey knight. The final location was Natasha Hillbridge's dump site, one state horizontal from Paige Howfield's—and that was where he'd left behind the red bishop.

Each piece held its own significance. He, of course, was the red bishop, the piece undervalued, overlooked in favor of the knight. He had sent Erin his red queen for several reasons—it was red, the color of blood and revenge, something dark and primal that a predator like Erin could understand, and it was his queen, his way of showing Erin,  _I don't need her, you took her from me years ago, and the game's still playing, still going_.

But the shale grey pieces, now  _they_  were the ones that truly held the most weight. The queen was Erin, so much like Carroll's White Queen, who would spend her last days perpetually living life in reverse, whose past would become her future. You see, part of John's plan included the fact that Erin Strauss would know who he was, just before he killed her. First, he would taunt her with just enough clues to make her start remembering, make her start realizing exactly why someone wanted revenge. He wanted her looking over her shoulder, filling with dread at the realization that her past demons were finally out roaming the earth, waiting to drag her back to the place she truly belonged.

The knight left behind at Courtney Shandon's dump site was Alex Blake, the favored child of the Bureau, so valiant and headstrong and chosen above the more powerful bishop, simply because of its flashiness. She was the one who was supposed to rush into battle, the one the Bureau had chosen to defend the world against their darkest enemies, but she would be no match against the enemy of the Bureau's own making, the one they had turned him into, the one they would never be able to vanquish, because he was their creature, and the creation always surpassed the creator,  _always_.

The other grey knight—the one he'd sent to Erin—had been his final clue. On its base, he'd simply carved  _b1_. A chess player would know what that meant—the knight sent to Erin was the queen's knight.  _The queen, the queen, the queen has lost her knight. Her flank is unprotected, and that is where I'll strike_.

Sure, Erin hadn't lost David yet, but John would make sure that before all was said and done, Strauss' white knight would have an extra helping of angst—David Rossi would receive the full measure of John Curtis' wrath, the proper punishment for traitors of the worst ilk. Especially since he was committing the greatest offense of all—he was sleeping with the enemy.

* * *

**Vienna, Virginia.**

"Dear Lord, Mother—if you don't stop flitting around, you're going to drive us all batty."

Erin didn't stop her endeavors to scrub out the oven as she simply replied, "I have to do something, Jordan. You know that."

"Then you should have gone to work."

"I wouldn't be able to do a single thing. Besides, it's my day off."

"You seem to be able to do a lot of things right now."

"Mindless tasks," Erin pointed out, taking a moment to sit back on her heels—the fumes from the cleaning agents were beginning to get to her. "No one dies if I get distracted while mopping the floor. However, if I were spacing out in the middle of a case, there might be some repercussions."

The mention of death and cases caused an uneasy pause. Then Jordan asked the question that had been on her mind all morning.

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"What did Carrington bring you?"

"Just some stuff from the office." Erin replied causally, returning to her task.

"Must have been pretty important stuff, if she drove all the way over here—"

"Jordan, I am not having this conversation with you," Erin snapped, and she instantly regretted how harsh she sounded. With a heavy sigh, she tried to soften her tone. "You know that I don't like talking about work."

Her daughter gave a slight shrug, as if she didn't really believe her mother's excuse, yet she knew that she had to accept it, because Erin certainly wasn't going to give up any more information. From the edge of the island, Erin's phone began to ring. Jordan scooped it up and gave a slight smile at the name on the screen.

"Hey, David, it's Jordan," she answered easily (she made sure to clearly state who she was, just to avoid any possible embarrassing salutations).

"Hey, Dannie." David had started referring to her by her family nickname, and for some reason, she didn't mind at all. "Where's your mother?"

"Scrubbing away at the inside of the oven like the little cinder girl."

"That bad, huh?"

"Yup. It's actually the stillest she's been all morning—she's been rolling around here so fast that I'm beginning to get dizzy."

Erin snapped her fingers, motioning for her daughter to hand over the phone. Jordan obeyed with an amused smirk, and as she exited the kitchen, her mother could've sworn that she was humming 'Someday My Prince Will Come' from  _Snow White_.

"Any news?" She asked, slightly breathless from nerves and exertion.

"None yet, bella." She could hear the regret in his voice. Then, he asked, "Did you get anything delivered to the house today?"

How the hell could he know that? Erin swallowed quickly, "No. Should…should I be expecting something?"

"I don't know," he answered with a frustrated sigh. After a small pause, he spoke again, "I just wanted to make sure that everyone was alright."

"We're all still here," she assured him gently. She knew that he would rather be here, with her, with their son, with the rest of the family, and she felt a sadness at the thought that despite the rosy time they'd had over the past few days, this moment was actually closer to the reality of their future—David being away and Erin trying not to miss him too much, late night phone conversations instead of simply waking up side-by-side, regrets and distance between them. She pushed those depressing images aside as she added, "And we'll still be here when you get home tonight."

Home. She'd called this David's home, without even thinking about it.

"Good," his voice was warm and tender. There was some kind of noise in the background, and Erin thought she heard Aaron Hotchner's voice. David gave another sigh, "I've got to go—I'll check in a little later."

"I love you."

"I love you, too, bella."

Erin set the phone on the counter again, rubbing her brow in frustration. She didn't want to lie to David about the chess pieces, but something had held her back, and she had followed the instinct. There had to be some other clue, another key to unlock the message that the Replicator was trying to send.

Right now, those two pieces were re-wrapped and in their envelope, tucked away in the study bookshelf, behind her collection of T.S. Eliot and Walt Whitman. And that was where they would stay, until Erin had more information. Sometimes the best move was not to move at all—to simply wait and see the whole field, to figure out where the other players were and where they were going.

She was laying too many traps now—hiding this evidence, altering the Phillip Connor report, searching for familiar faces in the street and at AA meetings—and it was all starting to pile up. If she kept running blind, she was likely to fall into her own net.

Christopher was finally awake, trudging down the stairs as he scrubbed his sleepy face with his hands.

"What's that weird smell?" He asked, his eyes lighting up in understanding when he saw the cleaning supplies on the counter-top. "Aw, Mom, really?"

She didn't answer—she hated how easily she could be read, even by her own children, hated that everyone was making such a fuss over her, when their only concern should be keeping Chris safe.

Her son simply walked up to her and gave her a hug, squeezing her almost too tightly. He didn't try to soothe away her fears or tell her that everything was going to be alright. He merely kissed her forehead (how had he gotten to be so much taller than his mother, when he was still just her baby?).

He glanced around the kitchen, "So, what're we cleaning next?"


	42. From the Mouths of Babes

_"[E]verything involving our children was painful in some way. The emotions, whether they were joy, sorrow, love or pride, were so deep and sharp that in the end they left you raw, exposed and yes, in pain. The human heart was not designed to beat outside the human body and yet, each child represented just that—a parent's heart bared, beating forever outside its chest."_

_~Debra Ginsberg._

* * *

**June 2013. Midlands Mall (formerly a small wooded area, where Bristol Evatt's body was originally found), Colorado.**

Mommy always said never to take things that didn't belong to you. But Sarah couldn't help it—it was so pretty, so shiny, so exotic. It was a princess crown, with jewels and flowers carved into it, and it was the color of the sky just before the rain, and it was so smooth under her fingertips.

So while Mommy was fussing with Bobby's stroller, Sarah simply reached over and plucked up the odd object from the edge of the fountain.

Really, she wasn't taking it—it had been left all alone, abandoned, so it didn't belong to anybody else. It was hers now.

"Sarah, what do you have?"

Of course, Mommy noticed now that Sarah didn't want her attention.

"A crown." She answered simply. "I didn't take it—it was left here."

Mommy stooped down to inspect the new trinket. "How odd. It's a chess piece. A queen."

"Can I keep her?"

Mommy looked around, her face scrunching up in the funny way that it always did when she was confused or thinking very hard about something. She stood up and looked around again. Then, with a shrug, she handed the piece back to Sarah, "And what will you do with a chess piece? It's supposed to be a part of a set, that you use in a game."

"Please? I'll take very good care of her, I promise."

Mommy was smiling at her—that always told Sarah that she was winning whatever argument she was making, and the little girl put on her best, brightest, most winning smile. That made Mommy laugh, and Sarah knew that she was victorious.

"Oh, fine."

Sarah let out a cheer of joy, looking down at her newly-discovered treasure as if it were the greatest thing she'd ever seen.

Sarah's mother simply shook her head with a wry smile. Kids. Strangest things.

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia.**

David Rossi gave a frustrated sigh as he rubbed his forehead, forcing himself to refocus his attention on the papers strewn across his desk. He glanced at his watch and inwardly growled at the realization that it was barely afternoon—this day seemed to drag on forever.

He wanted to call Erin. Again. However, he didn't want to increase her anxiety by constantly calling, constantly asking  _is everyone ok?_ , because he knew that she was already high-strung as it was.

Christopher was safe. Even if he wasn't under the constant watch of a protective detail, he was with his mother, who actually was one of the best shots David had ever seen—if she could get to her gun in time. He pushed that worried thought aside with the knowledge that the Replicator wasn't a common stalker, he wouldn't simply break into their homes, no, not when he could be even cleverer by sending a bomb or an anthrax-filled letter...David shook his head, trying to physically eject such thoughts from his mind. He couldn't consider the negative. He couldn't.

This was his weakness, his Achilles heel. Normally, he could look at a situation from all angles, could consider the worst-case scenario with a sense of detachment that was necessary to his ability to think clearly and logically. However, when it came to Erin and Christopher, he found that he couldn't do that, because he couldn't contemplate the worst-case scenario. This realization actually frightened him, because he felt that it hindered him, kept him from seeing the whole board when it came to this sick bastard's game, created blind spots which would allow this UNSUB to slip in and harm those whom David cherished the most.

David's inner conflict was interrupted by a quick rap on his door—he looked up to see Aaron Hotchner leaning into the doorframe, his dark eyes filled with concern.

"How's Jack?" David asked, speaking before Aaron had a chance to do the same.

"He's fine," the younger man gave a curt nod. After a beat, he added, "I still have a four-day weekend scheduled next week—I'm taking him up to New York, so that we can spend some time with Beth."

Aaron didn't have to add the big  _if_ —if nothing happened today. David simply nodded, "You guys need a little break. It'll be good to get away."

"I think so."

"How's Beth?"

"She's...Beth." There was a soft, warm smile on Aaron's face that David hadn't seen in a very long time. Aaron clarified, "She has created an itinerary for the whole weekend. I think she may even have her entire wardrobe lined up as well."

"She's a planner?"

"That would be an understatement. I think she might have been a military tactician in a previous life."

David chuckled at the comparison, trying to reconcile the memory of the sweet, funny woman he'd met with Aaron's description of her.

"How are Erin and Christopher?" Hotch asked quietly.

"The last time I checked, they were fine."

"The last time?"

"I may have called a few dozen times."

"I see," Hotch was amused, but there was understanding in his dark eyes.

"I don't know how to do this, Hotch," the older man admitted with a sigh.

Aaron didn't have to ask what Dave meant by those words, because he understood—he understood, he lived those same fears and uncertainties himself. He simply remained silent, allowing his friend to continue at his own pace. Hotch was more introverted, preferred keeping his own thoughts closer to his chest, but Dave was his opposite—an extrovert, someone who needed to talk things out, who needed to voice his thoughts in order to understand them.

"I can't find distance." David leaned forward, his eyes focused on his hands, which were clasped in front of him as he continued, "In all these years, I've never had to learn how—it's just always been something that I could do, without even thinking about it, really. I can do it with other victims, in other cases...I thought I'd done the same thing with this one, but today...today I'm unraveling."

Now his eyes turned back to his unit chief, seeking some kind of guidance as he simply asked, "How, Aaron? How do you do this?"

There was a beat at Hotch truly considered his friend's words (Dave deserved the full measure of his consideration, deserved an honest, thoughtful answer, deserved the best that Hotch could give in this moment). Then he took a deep breath, "You just do it, Dave. There isn't any other choice. Because you have to do  _something_  to keep from going completely out of your mind. But the fear's always there, the fear and the not knowing and the sense of...helplessness. It's all still there, and you don't really deal with it, so much as you just push it back down, because it's not useful. Because someone you love is on the line, and you can't afford to make a mistake. The stakes are higher and the fear is greater, but somehow you just work through it—you can't box it away, you can't compartmentalize it or move around it, so you just learn to move with it. You just keep moving."

With a slight sigh, Aaron shook his head, "I know that doesn't sound like much of an answer, but it's the only one I've got. I wish I could say that it gets easier, but it doesn't."

There was a heavy beat of silence. Then David shrugged, "Well, at least you're honest."

Aaron's voice was quiet, "Sometimes honesty's all you've got."

Dave nodded in agreement. Then he glanced down at his watch again.

"Call her," Aaron said. "She'll be glad that you're thinking about her."

"You think so?"

Now Hotch's somber expression melted into a teasing grin, "I thought you were supposed to be the one who knew all about women, Dave."

The older man merely laughed at the quip. Then Aaron became serious again, "We're having one last briefing in fifteen minutes. Then I'm going to start sending people home. As much as I would prefer to keep everyone here until we're certain that the danger has passed, I can't justify paying my entire team to work this case on their official day off."

David nodded in understanding, feeling his friend's unexpressed frustration at the day's events (or lack thereof), frustration that even in a moment like this, they were still bound by red tape and regulations. With one last rueful look, Aaron Hotchner disappeared again, leaving Dave with his thoughts.

_You just keep moving_. When Carolyn was pregnant with their son, David had felt the heavy weight of expectation that comes with being a parent, with the realization that he would actually be responsible for another life, another soul, another future citizen of the planet. It had been scary, to the point of wondering if they should have even embarked on this journey, but when it ended (all too soon, cruelly too soon), he had suddenly realized that he would have preferred the journey to simply never knowing. He remembered working on a case with Erin during the last few months of her pregnancy, remembered her uncertainty, her fear of not being a good mother. He also remembered three years later, when they met again in Seattle (twenty years ago, had it really been that long?), how Erin had talked about being a mother to a toddler, how she'd told him that the fear had never really gone away ( _it's a fear that stays with you the rest of your life—the basis of the fear changes, but it's always there, asking will I be able to do this, will I be able to protect my baby, will I be a good example, will I be able to mend her broken heart, will I be able to provide for her all the things she needs to be successful and balanced and not-too-bruised in life?_ ). On some level, he had understood her concerns. Now, he truly empathized with Erin's angst.

Everyone tells you how having a child with change your life. They mean it, every word of it, with a deep conviction that goes beyond understanding. What they don't always tell you is the simple fact that no matter how old your child gets, you never stop being their parent, and they never stop being your child. Though David had missed Christopher's childhood, whenever he looked at the young man, he saw the bright-eyed toddler from all the photographs that Erin had given him, staring back at him with such quiet expectation.

Everyone tells you that children are resilient. They forget to point out that your feelings for them aren't, that the fragile fears of your heart and soul and something deeper will always remain rooted in a terror too great to voice, for fear that you may speak some evil into existence. Love and fear, fear and love.

How easily they went hand-in-hand.

* * *

**April 2011. Vienna, Virginia**.

Jordan Elaine Strauss took a deep breath to steady herself as she looked up at her mother. Her left leg seemed to have a mind of its own, because it kept nervously bouncing its heel against the floor, no matter how hard she tried to stop it. But it kept her hands from trembling, so she guessed that she should be grateful for the nervous tic.

She ducked her head and went back to scrubbing down the kitchen countertop as her mother continued removing the clean dishes from the dishwasher, the moment so calmly domestic that Jordan wanted to hold onto it for as long as possible. But deep down, she knew that it couldn't last—there was too much at stake, and she had to act now, before all courage deserted her. She stopped again, opening and closing her mouth before she even uttered a sound, taking a tentative step towards her mother, but pulling back. The movement caught Erin's eye, and she looked up, and a full beat passed as mother and daughter simply stared at one another.

_She's going to hate me forever_. The realization ran like a mantra, like a constant flash of white-hot lightning through her mind as she observed her mother's cautious expression ( _the one Mom wears when she's certain that she won't like what she's about to hear_ ).

"Mom," Jordan started gently, her courage faltering as her gaze dropped to the ground. Erin's mother-heart felt a pang at the thought that her own child would be so nervous to talk to her (about anything, because Erin still wasn't sure what this conversation was about), but Jordan was someone who needed to think through her thoughts, to organize them logically before expressing them, so Erin let her daughter take the time and the silence that she needed. Still, she couldn't resist the urge to simply take Jordan's hand between her own, silently reassuring her daughter that she was here, listening, ready and open to whatever she had to say.

This simple act gave Jordan the push she needed, and she quickly continued, "Mom, I think you need to get help."

There was a beat before Erin asked, "For what?"

Jordan looked up and realized that her mother truly had no idea how bad she'd gotten. It was four o'clock on a Sunday afternoon, and already those light green eyes (so much like Jordan's, the only thing she'd gotten from her mother) were bloodshot and slightly hazy. It was like her mother was a desaturated version of her self, with less color and less laughter and less spark.

So Jordan clarified, "I think you need to get help for your alcoholism."

"My...what?" Erin felt the breath trap in her lungs. She blinked, as if trying to clear her head, taking a moment to regard her daughter, waiting for her jovial trickster to laugh and say that it was all a joke. But that serious young face was not laughing. She let go of Jordan's hand, and the action stabbed the young girl's heart like a knife.

"It's gotten bad again, Mom," Jordan's voice quavered, her eyes following her mother's movements as she went back to her task at the dishwasher.

"Have I ever been too drunk to go into work?" Erin asked quietly. She continued to build her argument with each dish that she set on the countertop. "Have I ever been too drunk to take Anna to school, or to meet you for lunch? Have I ever let alcohol interfere with my day-to-day life in a way that debilitates me or takes away my ability to function?"

"No," Jordan answered meekly.

"Then how, exactly," her question was punctuated by the solid sound of the dishwasher shutting, "could my drinking  _be_  a problem if it doesn't actually create any problems?"

Her tone was low, even, restrained, but Jordan could feel her mother's tense muscles from across the room, could sense the anger and hurt radiating from her at the inferred insinuation behind Jordan's statement ( _you're failing us as a mother, you're turning into your own mother_ ).

"Mom," Jordan knew that she'd hit some emotional land mine, though she wasn't sure what it was, and she immediately rushed to fix it. "I love you. I'm...I'm not saying...you're a good mom, and I'm not trying to—I just...you're not here."

"What?" Erin turned back to her daughter, trying to make sense of her tumbling words (gods, she was like Erin in so many ways, in the way that she was never good with words, in the way she bravely pushed forward anyways, in the way she hoped that the love behind her mangled verbiage would shine through, in the way she believed the power of love would conquer all, even her own awkward fumblingness).

"You're not here," her eldest child repeated, her lips quivering as she took a deep breath to explain. "You're here, and you're functioning, but you're not with us, not really. It's like you're in a glass box—it doesn't look like there's anything between us, but there is, and it's keeping you from truly being here, in this moment."

Erin couldn't argue with that. Sure, she was still functioning, still moving through her life without any real difficulty, but the alcohol did create a detached haze, a veneer over her emotions (which made life easier to bear, which was exactly why she drank, so that things would be more tolerable). But the thing that made her life more bearable was also the thing that created a strange veil between her and her children. The realization hit her in the gut like a sledgehammer.

"I'm…I'm so…." Now it was Erin's turn to fumble for words, as she fully digested the freshly-revealed truth. She blinked several times, unsuccessfully trying to push back the tears that swelled in her eyes. She stood there, suddenly humbled and completely broken as she quietly conceded, "You're right. And it's unacceptable. I'm—I can't—I'm sorry."

She turned away slowly, as if in a daze, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. This was really happening. Her daughter was actually standing here, crying, telling her that she was slowly killing herself, slipping away just as surely as her own father was slipping away, but at least Jameson had the excuse of not choosing his own demise. She had been doing the same thing to her own children that she was experiencing with her father, and had been too selfish to even realize it. Suddenly, reality snapped back with a jolt, and she felt as if her legs might give away from the sudden weight of blame and guilt and shame that hit her back like the lash of a whip, and she leaned forward, trying to push back the sob that skittered through her chest. How had it come to this?

Jordan had never seen her mother look so small, so vulnerable and filled with pain, and the small strangled sounds coming from Erin's chest ripped her daughter's heart into a million bleeding pieces as she realized that she had truly hurt her mother. She moved forward slightly, "I'm sorry, Mom, I didn't mean to—"

Erin turned back to her daughter, and the sight was another stab to her heart—Jordan's hands were outstretched, silently pleading, as if she wanted to run into her mother's arms, but fear stopped her. Erin thought of all the times she'd physically ached for her own mother's comfort, all the times that she'd been too afraid, too well-conditioned to dare or hope for such a thing, and she hated the fact that her own daughter felt that same fear, even for a second.

She was not her mother. She had spent her life trying her damnedest not to be the cold and distant woman that Elaine had been to her own offspring. And though apparently she'd allowed herself to clock out via alcohol, she'd never intentionally put her children through such psychologically-damaging harm.

Her own pride was long gone.

"Oh, no, darling," she moved across the kitchen, pulling Jordan into her arms, her own tears renewing themselves when she felt her daughter sag against her chest in relief and tears. "No, no, don't be sorry. You were trying, I know you were. I love you, you know that. I love you and nothing could ever change that. Nothing, nothing, nothing."

Jordan was still murmuring apologies into her mother's shoulder, her hot tears soaking through the fabric of Erin's linen top, seeping into her skin and finding their way to her heart.

They stood there for quite some time, quietly crying and holding each other as Erin swayed gently back and forth, making small noises to comfort and soothe her daughter's tears, in so many ways reminiscent of so many sleepless nights that she'd spent cooing and rocking her first baby, so deathly afraid of somehow ruining this fragile life that was miraculously entrusted in her keeping.

* * *

The next morning, Erin Strauss quietly sat down with the director and informed him that she was going to take an extended leave of absence—first to seek treatment for her alcoholism (which everyone seemed to know about but no one ever mentioned), then to devote her time to caring for her dying father. He gently nodded in understanding, telling her to take as much time as she needed. Then he asked her if she'd thought about whom they should consider for her temporary replacement.

Wonder of all wonders, she found herself not even hesitating as she calmly stated, "Aaron Hotchner."

She realized that despite his obvious disdain for protocol and their mutual dislike, he was an honorable man and a competent leader. He was also someone whom she trusted (how that had happened, she would never know, because that still surprised her), and unfortunately there weren't many names on that list.

When she informed Agent Hotchner of the decision, he'd cautiously asked if she wanted to talk about it, his dark eyes filled with a sense of gentle concern that she wasn't accustomed to receiving from the generally hard-edged agent. Naturally, she'd declined his offer with a wry smile, still somewhat amused at how tragedy on any level seemed to bring out a sense of camaraderie between even the direst enemies.

Of course, he was also telling Erin that he was aware of her drinking habits, in a gentle, subtle way, and she respected him for it. Here was his chance to tear her apart, and yet, he'd chosen kindness instead. For that, she would always be grateful.

* * *

**June 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

If Erin Strauss could have ripped apart a human being with her bare teeth, it would have been the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Right now, she should be home with her son. Instead, she'd been called onto the carpet, and here she was, standing in front of the director like a belligerent student being called into the principal's office. She kept her gaze focused on the floor, so that she wouldn't have to look him in the eye, so that he couldn't see the pure anger seething underneath (he could have simply called her on the phone, instead his secretary had called to tell her that she would be expected in his office in an hour, forcing her to dress up and drive all the way over here, a spiteful, bratty power-play that certainly didn't endear him to his section chief).

He hadn't helping the situation by his tone, by his casualness as he tossed another report onto his desk, as he asked about the latest details on the Replicator case. He'd expressed feigned concern, then quietly informed her that the Bureau could not continue to pay for round-the-clock security for the seven members of the BAU plus the three boys, and if the team did not receive a communication from the Replicator today, then the details would be dismissed by Monday morning.

The director had been so calm, so pragmatic and practical, and Erin had gritted her teeth to keep from shooting off a retort that would likely end her career.

And again, he had the gall to inform her that the team should be in the field—regardless of the fact that they hadn't been formally asked by anyone to come into the field. Really, did this man  _not_  understand how things worked?

Fortunately, Erin Strauss had spent many years in this ring of bureaucracy, which trained her to hold her tongue, duck her head, and say  _Yes, sir_ , without ever revealing her true thoughts or her dislike for the man standing before her. Directors would come and go, but in ten years' time, she would probably still be here, still holding her tongue and contenting herself with the knowledge that soon she'd have someone else to deal with, perhaps someone with a better idea of how things should actually be.

However, she could only contain her anger for so long—as soon as she was dismissed, she barreled down the hallway like a bat out of torment, her brows set in a harsh line that heralded her displeasure long before she opened her mouth.

Penelope Garcia took one look at that formidable mask and instantly considered ducking under her own desk for cover (and possibly to hide until Strauss left), but unfortunately, the older blonde had already spotted her.

Erin let the door to Garcia's lair slam shut before she announced, in a flat tone which belied the pure violence coursing underneath, "The director has ordered the team into the field."

"But…but we haven't—"

"I  _know_ , Penelope." Erin gave a frustrated sigh as gestured futilely to the stack of folders on the desk, "Can you just…find something?"

"I, um, I could…," Penelope rolled her chair over to the section of her desk which was laden with files. "Actually, I have two that came in this afternoon, I'm compiling all the information for Hotch—um, Agent Hotchner—"

Erin moved forward, practically leaning over the younger blonde's shoulder, and Penelope offered her the folder, which only held a few pieces of paper. The section chief quickly scanned the file, holding it at a slight distance (in her haste, she'd left her reading glasses in the car). Then she handed it back to Penelope, "And the other?"

"Here."

A few more seconds passed as Erin scanned the second folder's contents. She gave a curt nod, "Get these to Agent Hotchner as soon as possible, though I'm pretty sure he'll take the one in Tucson. The director wants them on a flight  _today_."

"But—"

"I know. I know, I know, I know." Erin could not keep the growl from her voice, though she tried to curb her anger. With another sigh, she conceded, "I tried, and I know I asked you to keep them here, but...but I can't butt heads with the director any further on this issue. Not if I'm going to...Nevermind. Just get these to Agent Hotchner. And strongly suggest that he go with the case in Tucson—it's a ticking time bomb and they need our help the most."

Turning smartly on her heel, Erin Strauss exited, leaving behind a confused Penelope, who tried to figure out the meaning in her words.

As she headed back to the parking garage, Erin cursed herself for letting her emotions win, for not only breaking the rules but pushing Penelope Garcia into it as well, for being so weak and so easily undone. Her cell beeped, and she pulled it from her jacket pocket, feeling a mixture of relief and frustration when she saw David's name on the caller ID (relief because she needed to hear his soothing voice, frustration because she wanted more than just his voice, and she knew that she wasn't going to get that, not tonight, not when she was sending the whole team out into the field).

"Hello, love," she tried to keep the frustration from her voice (and failed spectacularly).

"What's wrong?"

"I got called in. To the director's office."

"Why?"

"Because he's an ass with the emotional needs of a two-year-old, that's why."

"Please tell me that you're not within earshot of anyone right now, bella."

"I've played this game for quite a while—I know how to be aware of my surroundings."

"Of course you do."

"Don't patronize me, David Rossi. Not right now."

"I'm sorry."

"Me, too."

"He wanted to know about the Replicator case?" David already knew the answer to that question, but he wanted to keep talking, wanted to simply hear her voice, even if it was tinged with the beginnings of Really Angry Erin.

"And he wants me to push the team into the field. Tonight."

"It's the job, bella."

"I know."

He knew that she truly did. He heard her give a frustrated sigh.

David decided to switch gears, "Are you still at Quantico?"

"Yes. Walking to my car right now."

"So…you could meet me in the north stairwell in ten minutes?"

Suddenly she was laughing at his roguish ways, "David Rossi, absolutely not!"

"You sure? You sound like you need to blow off a little steam."

"You are incorrigible."

"I'm just trying to be helpful," he said with the air of a selfless martyr. Then he became serious again, "You need to be home with our son anyways."

There was a tenderness in his voice that melted her heart all over again (and for the briefest of moments, she allowed herself the fantasy of what life should have been, how they should have been raising Christopher together, from the very beginning, out in the open). She gave a soft smile, "I do love you, you know?"

"I do. But I still like hearing you say it."

"How's it going?"

"It's going nowhere, really." She could hear the aggravation in his voice. "I'm stuck at my desk, waiting on calls that never come. And I...I can't stop worrying about you, both of you."

She could also hear the tears in his voice, his fear at his own weakness, and if she had wings, she would fly to him and take him in her arms in a heartbeat. Instead, she fought back the urge to turn around and go back into the building, through the maze of hallways that would lead to his door—because as much as she wanted to comfort him, she also felt the clawing need to be back at Christopher's side as soon as possible.

He cleared his throat and shifted the conversation, "Well, if we do get sent out tonight, I just want you to know that, no matter what, I'll be back by Tuesday."

"David, I told you, if something happens, it's OK—"

"And I told you that I would be there."

"David..."

"Erin, don't even try to fight me on this one."

She was grinning again at his endearing determination—this was what it meant to truly be loved by David Rossi, to feel the full measure of his devotion, not just in the bedroom, but in life, in all the ways that deeply mattered.

"OK."

"OK?" He seemed surprised. "That's it? You're conceding the field that easily, kitten?"

"Miracles happen."

"They do." There was a sudden softness to his tone, and suddenly, she felt herself blushing (how did he do that, how did he flip from humor to tenderness so easily, how did he always have a caring romanticism that was supposed to only exist in sonnets and fairy tales, how did he call her love a miracle and how did she wholeheartedly believe it?).

"Be safe," her tone matched his, low and warm and filled with so many unspoken things. "I'll see you when you get back. I love you."

"I love you, too, bella. If we leave—"

"It's not  _if_ , it's  _when_ —"

"Would you let me finish my sentence?" He gave a slight huff at her impatience. "If we leave before I get the chance to see you again, then I'll see you by Tuesday."

After a few more professions of love and several off-color comments in Italian, the conversation ended, and Erin was headed back to Vienna, still smiling on what was probably the most worrisome day of her life. And she silently thanked whatever twist of fate or karma or destiny or divine intervention had given her this chance, this chance with this man, this man who understood her above all others, this man who calmed her soul and made her laugh even in the darkest times.

Suddenly, she wondered how she could have imagined their story ending any other way. From the very beginning, it had always been David Rossi. Always, always.

Always.


	43. Devil's Backbone

_"Give me the burden, give me the blame_   
_I'll shoulder the load, and I'll swallow the shame_   
_Give me the burden, give me the blame_   
_How many, how many Hail Marys is it gonna take?"_

_~The Civil Wars._

* * *

**November 1988. Washington, D.C.**

There was something beautifully awe-inspiring about churches, particularly cathedrals, with their heavy stones and shimmering stained glass windows, still holding generations of hopes and prayers and pleas and breaths of those long past, their footsteps still whispering and echoing through the shadowed eaves with the quiet persistence legacy and continuation.

David Rossi took a moment to appreciate this fact as he stopped, quietly kneeling and crossing himself before entering the pew. Someone else was already in the confessional, so he waited, occupying himself by looking at the architecture and letting his thoughts wander.

For what seemed like the thousandth time, his mind went back to the strange night in New York that felt like a lifetime ago (had it really only been a week?).

He couldn't tell his wife. He should. He should be brave, should be honest, should be the kind of man who admitted his mistakes and begged for the forgiveness that he surely didn't deserve.

He'd known that it was a mistake long before he'd actually taken Erin Strauss to bed, but that hadn't stopped him—in fact, it hadn't even caused a moment's hesitation. The next morning, he'd expected to feel some kind of horrible guilt and angst, he'd expected to realize what a colossal mistake that it had all been, but he hadn't. He hadn't, and that scared him more than anything. What kind of person cheated on his spouse, with another married woman (with another married woman whom he couldn't even tolerate most of the time), without any remorse?

David Rossi did not want to be that kind of man. He'd never been that kind of man before—and until a week ago, he had thought that he wasn't even  _capable_  of infidelity. He'd sworn to be faithful and true to one woman (just as he'd done with Carolyn, but that was something beyond his control, for the loss of their son had created an irrevocable chasm between them), and he'd meant every word, every breath of that oath taken before God, had meant it with every fiber of his being, every ounce of his heart.

Erin Strauss had proven him wrong. Yet again. He was pretty sure that was something else to hate about her.

He silently amended that statement—he didn't hate her. He wasn't particularly fond of her, but he didn't hate her. That was what made this all so strange to David—he understood love, and he understood lust, but this thing between them bewildered him completely.

This was something far darker than anything he'd ever known before. Sure, he'd slept with women whom he didn't love (and sometimes even regretted it, later on), but he hadn't even considered himself attracted to Erin Strauss until that strange electric evening (how could you be attracted to someone whose very presence often grated your nerves like a wire brush?).

Yes, there had definitely been attraction. It had somehow retreated the next morning, and Erin had actually suggested that they simply pretend as if nothing ever happened (she had suggested it so easily, though he could see her shaking beneath her calm exterior, and he had wondered if she'd done this before, wondered if she'd given this speech to other men, other foreign encounters of hard edges and soft sighs and fiery touches). But some kind of spark had been there, even if only for the briefest of flashes.

Of course, when he'd first met her, he'd thought that she was good-looking, but her personality had tainted his view of her appearance. However, things were changing on that front, too. Only two days after that dark night, they were both at the airport, sitting in those horribly uncomfortable seats at their gate, closer than they'd been to one another in days (they'd studiously avoided each other, except to work together, and things had actually been smoother, though there still was the occasional spat or disagreement). The sun was setting, piercing through the huge glass windows of the airport, and Erin's face was turned to the horizon, her eyes closed as she simply waited. In that moment, with the sharp reds and yellows outlining her profile, the deeper purples framing her like the edges of a painting, her hair shining just as fiercely as the sun and her skin so smooth and untroubled, he'd actually found himself thinking that she was  _beautiful_.

Beautiful was different from pretty or good-looking or even attractive. Beautiful was deeper. Beautiful was scarier.

And it was that scariness that had pushed David Rossi here, to this supposed haven, this sanctuary from all the dirt and glitter of the world. Unfortunately, she'd slipped into this refuge with the ease of water flowing beneath the crack at the bottom of a door, taking his mind with her riddles and uncertainties, with all the things that she stirred in him, with all the things he didn't understand, with all the things he didn't  _want_  to understand, for fear of what they might truly mean.

In a few minutes, he was going to sit in that well-worn booth and confess perhaps the worst crime he'd ever committed—far worse, far more deadly than killing a man (because he'd shot and killed men before, but it was different, it was in self-defense, it was justified and forgiven, but this, this was unprovoked and unwarranted, a sin against his vows and his wife, against the heart of the woman whom he'd sworn to protect above all others).

Then, of course, would come the real question: was he truly contrite?

His contrition, however perfect or imperfect, would require that he resist such temptation in the future, require him to acknowledge his folly and swear never to repeat it.

He couldn't promise that.

He wanted to. God, how he wanted to. But if David Rossi were truly, deeply, openly honest with himself, he would have to admit that if Erin Strauss walked down this aisle at this very moment, with the same burning eyes and unbelievably electric touch that she'd possessed on that tempestuous night just six days ago, then he would follow her out of this holy house and into whatever dark corner she led him. He'd follow her straight into hell, and that realization sent a bolt of white-hot, skin-prickling fear through David Rossi's being.

 _But we swore it was one night and one night only. It won't happen ever again. I can say I won't do it again and it wouldn't be a lie—Erin said she wouldn't let it happen, and she won't. She's too strong_.

Erin was strong, strong in a strange way that made her backbone seem as if it were made of molten steel even when she thought she was tired and weak, in a way that allowed her to be the harshest and strictest with her own self, in a way that gave her the strength to deny herself, simply because she thought she should.

But did she consider swearing off David Rossi an act of denial? That question suddenly pricked his brain, and he sat back as he thought about it. She'd certainly enjoyed herself—even the greatest actress couldn't have faked a performance like that, and Erin Strauss wouldn't have lied to him, not about that, not when it meant giving David's ego a boost, because God knows, she hated conceding the slightest thing (if he said the sky was blue, she would argue against the color, just because she could, just because she was contrary and sniping and so very  _Erin_  in the most infuriating of ways).

He wondered if she was feeling the same oddly spiritless angst that he was. He shouldn't be wondering such things, shouldn't even be thinking of her at all, and yet...and yet.

He was so glad that the case had gone cold and they had been called back to their posts—she'd gone back to the D.C. office, and he'd been sent back to Quantico, and this case was their only point of connection, which meant that it may be months before they actually had to be in the same room again. Of course, something deep in his gut silently informed him that this probably wouldn't be the last time that they worked together, not by a long shot. He didn't know whether he anticipated or dreaded being around her again.

He couldn't confess this sin. He couldn't confess, because he couldn't repent (not truly, not in the way that he was supposed to, not in the way that really counted).

_Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have sinned, and I have every intention of sinning again, should Heaven or Hell be so gracious to present such temptation a second time._

* * *

**June 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

Jennifer Jareau staring unseeingly out the cabin window, her brow furrowed in a mixture of worry, regret, and exasperation as she held her cell phone to her ear. For once, her husband wasn't angry at the recent turn of events—they had been given a case in Arizona, and they were already on the plane, waiting for take-off, under the director's orders.

"It's OK, JJ," Will's voice was quiet, measured, weighted with fatigue and understanding. "Henry's safe with me, we've got enough agents around here to start our own field office—we're both gonna be just fine. Go do your job, warrior woman."

She smiled softly at the moniker, not feeling like much of a raging warrior at the moment, when her heart was breaking to be home with the two guys whom she loved more than life itself.

"Thank you," she simply said, and he knew everything those two words encompassed.

"I love you," he replied. Then there was a commotion in the background, and she could hear their son's voice.

"I love you, too, Mama!"

"I love you three," she quoted their familiar refrain, feeling the heartaching warmth of being on the inside of this beautiful little family unit.

"Be safe, honey," Will's voice returned, and JJ nodded, although he couldn't see her.

"I will. I've got to go—we're getting ready for take-off. I love you." After the Lady X Case, she always made sure that she said  _I love you_ , always made sure that he knew.

As the plane slowly began to taxi down the runway, Hotch moved into the seat next to hers, buckling himself in as he quietly spoke, his voice filled with a nonchalance that he surely didn't feel, "Henry and Will alright?"

"Safe and sound." She gave a sigh as she admitted, "I just wish...I wish things were different sometimes."

"Some days are longer and harder than others," he agreed. With a sigh of his own, he added, "This is definitely one of those days."

"Definitely."

And JJ simply couldn't stop herself—she reached over and took his hand, giving it a small, reassuring squeeze. Aaron looked up at her, giving her a soft smile of gratitude. Then he turned his dark eyes back to the file in front of him, announcing to the rest of the cabin, "Alright, we land in six hours—we need to have a working profile by then. As soon as we're in the air, we'll start coordinating with Garcia to get our information to the Tucson PD as soon as possible, so that we can merge into the current investigation as seamlessly as possible."

Derek Morgan shook his head as he continued reading the ME reports of previous victims. "I hate running against the clock."

"We're always running against the clock," Hotch reminded him quietly.

Almost instantaneously, the entire time turned to look at the clock above the cockpit entrance. There was still over six hours left in this day, this day that seemed to last for all eternity. Six hours, which would be spent in the air, completely unattached from their major resources, completely helpless to do anything, should the Replicator choose to make his move.

Some days were longer and harder than others. Some days pushed you further than you wanted to go, tested your courage and your faith and your fortitude to levels you never wanted to know, showed you just how close to the edge you could go, took you down paths that you never wanted to take.

This was definitely one of those days, walking along the edge of the Devil's backbone, so close to hell and so far from safety.

* * *

**Vienna, Virginia.**

Erin glanced up at the clock again, her mind doing the quick mental math to figure out how much longer until David landed in Arizona. She was currently curled up on the couch, sandwiched between Christopher and Jordan as they made fun of some horrible campy television show, becoming their own version of Mystery Science Theater 3000.

Everyone seemed to understand that until midnight, there would be no rest or peace in this house, so Erin's children had spent the day looking for ways to distract one another, though she often caught them glancing out the window or at the clocks on their phones.

Jordan was cackling at her brother's quips again, jolting Erin back to the present moment. She looked over at her son, who was smiling smugly at his own wit, looking so much like his father that it was almost unbearable. She wondered how none of them saw the resemblance, how none of them saw who David truly was. She was both relieved and saddened by their blindness as she reached over to lovingly ruffle her son's dark hair. Normally he would pull away, but today was an exception, so he dutifully accepted his mother's caresses, simply laying his head on her shoulder as she wrapped her arms around both of her children, pulling them into a hug.

"It's OK, Mom," Jordan whispered quietly, and Erin gave a curt nod in response.

"I know." Her mother answered simply, offering a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

Jordan's cell phone rang, and both Jordan and Chris went for it—however, Jordan was quicker, practically jumping to the coffee table and snatching it as she rolled off the edge of the couch. She landed with a thud and a new wave of laughter erupted among the three Strausses (this particular stunt wasn't that rare of an occurrence).

"Nice to see those thirteen years of ballet lessons weren't wasted, Grace," Erin quipped. From her current position on the floor, Jordan reached out and swatted her mother's leg playfully.

"Can't help that I got my mom's mad skillz, yo," she returned, before finally answering the phone. "Hey, Uncle Peter."

Erin sat up a little bit, wondering why her brother was calling, and Jordan's green eyes flickered up to meet her again as she sat up, rising to her feet and moving away, "Hang on a second…."

Her daughter disappeared into the dining room, and Erin turned to Chris with a confused look, "What was that all about?"

"Hell if I know," Chris shrugged nonchalantly, returning his attention to the television.

Oh, what good liars her children were. Unfortunately for them, she was their mother, and she saw past the charades as easily as breathing.

"Christopher Paul Strauss, what are you two up to?"

"Ooh, she's using my full name, I must be in big trouble—"

Erin lightly smacked her son's shoulder as she fought back an amused grin at his snark.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"Not on my life," he answered somberly.

Erin simply shook her head, stretching out her legs, which were trying to go to sleep in her current position.

"When's David coming back?" Chris asked.

She gave a slight shrug, "Whenever the case is finished."

"But I thought that he said he would be back by Tuesday."

She looked up at her son, "When did he tell you that?"

"Oh, just…I don't know…." Chris was desperately trying to cover his tracks, and it obviously wasn't working. Finally, he shrugged, "I just know these things, Mother."

"I see."

"Yes."

Erin took a beat to look at her son down the full length of her nose, silently measuring him up with a rather severe expression as she waited for him to crack under pressure. He didn't, so she simply shrugged as well, turning back to the melodrama-soaked TV screen. An actress tumbled out of bed, perfect hair and makeup, and Erin wanted to laugh (gods, if only she looked like that every time she woke up).

"Wow. Her boobs  _are_  fake," Erin commented, agreeing with a previous statement made by her children.

"I told you," Jordan stated as she padded back into the living room, plopping back onto the couch with a light sigh.

"Yup," Chris concurred. Then he grinned, "How do you have so much experience with other women's breasts, Dannie?"

His sister didn't rise to the bait. She merely shrugged, "Well, you know, we all had that experimentation phase in college."

Her brother hummed in agreement, casually adding, "And some of us never left that phase."

Jordan didn't respond, and Erin thought back to the strained exchange between Carrington and her daughter earlier that day. Was there something there?

And though Christopher enjoyed teasing his sister, he wasn't a cruel boy, so he easily dropped the subject, motioning to another lead actor on the TV, "Can someone say tanorexic? He's as orange as…"

"As an orange?" Jordan supplied with a quirk of her eyebrow. There was a beat before they started laughing again.

Erin laughed with them, glad for the moment of joy among the odd feelings and tensions of the day.

"What's so hysterical?" Anna appeared in the hallway, slipping her cell phone into the back pocket of her jeans.

"This show," Erin supplied.

Anna turned her attention to the TV, then she gave a look of mock horror, "What? I love this show! Entertainment at its finest, right here. I'm surprised Meryl Streep hasn't guest starred."

"It's that good," Chris agreed with dry somberness.

Then Anna broke into a grin, moving to the other side of the couch and shoving Jordan closer to their mother so that she could wedge onto the furniture as well. Jordan made a slight noise of protest, but she still shifted to allow her little sister some space.

"Three more hours," Anna announced, rather unnecessarily, since everyone was very well aware of the time.

"Yep," Chris said easily.

"Yep," Jordan agreed with a shaky intake of breath.

Erin put her arms around her children again, pulling them as close as she possibly could, "Yep."

There was a moment of silence as they simply held on to each other, watching the clock to continue its ponderous journey.

* * *

**Tucson, Arizona.**

David turned back his watch, adjusting for the time difference. Bad weather had put them behind schedule, and he knew that it was already after midnight in Virginia. Still, Erin wouldn't sleep until she knew that they'd safely landed. As he followed Alex down the airstair, he slipped his cell from his pocket and dialed Erin's number.

She answered on the first ring, her voice filled with an odd mix of apprehension and relief, "David?"

"It's me, bella." The endearment slipped out, without thought, and Alex turned around to grin at her colleague, quirking her eyebrow, and David simply shook his head ( _don't even go there_ ).

"I was so worried—it seemed like it was taking too long, and I thought...I was afraid..." His lover couldn't even finish the thought, and David felt a small measure of comfort (because it meant that his inability to imagine the worst when it came to her was justified, justified by love and concern and all those redeeming qualities between them).

"We hit a storm. It slowed us down, but we're finally here," he moved away from the rest of the team, just enough to afford some privacy. "How is everyone?"

"We're fine," she replied gently. "The kids decided on a late night swim, to celebrate. It's...it's after midnight, so...so we're safe, right?"

"Yes, bella," he breathed a heavy sigh of relief, though it was tinged with the fear of the unknown. He glanced across the tarmac—he could see that Hotch and JJ were on their phones as well, and he knew that they were checking in with their families. "I think we're safe, for now."

"We survived," her voice was soft, warm, smiling, so full of fatigue and relief, and David wished that he was beside her, feeling the heat of her body radiating onto his own skin, holding the tired lines of her shoulders and taking in the scent of her hair. He missed her quiet stillness so deeply in that moment, missed her ability to smooth away the rough edges of the day, and he surprised himself with how deeply the longing hit him, like the physical force of a tidal wave. After all the years that he'd spent on the road, he'd never missed a woman the way that he missed the voice on the other end of the line.

"I wish I was there," he admitted softly.

"I know," was her simple reply. "I wish you were, too."

Then he felt her shift, heard her clear her throat as she continued, "Don't worry about us. We're fine. Just focus on your case. They need you at your best, David."

"Aye, Chief."

Somehow, he knew that she was grinning, "I love you. Be safe."

"I will, bella. Love you, too."

David rejoined his team, who were all loading their bags into the standard black SUVs, everyone visibly jetlagged but still relieved that there had been no news on the Replicator front.

"Maybe it really was a deflection," Morgan commented, gallantly taking JJ's bag and tossing it into the back of the SUV.

"That can't be our focus right now," Hotch reminded him. "This UNSUB only holds his victims for 48 hours, and we're already at hour twenty-six. The boys are safe—"

"For now," JJ pointed out, folding her arms across her chest. "At least until the director pulls the plug on our protective details."

"Strauss won't let that happen," Morgan informed her (and everyone was slightly surprised by the conviction in his voice). Noticing his colleagues' expressions, he shrugged, "What? She's got fire. She's already stood up to the director—and won—several times on this case. And she's got extra incentive this time. Never come between a mama bear and her cub."

Even Hotch had to grin at the comparison—of course, then he immediately went back into command mode, "Blake and Reid, head to the latest victim's house; Morgan and Rossi, join the forensic team at the abduction site; JJ and I will go to the police station."

With curt nods, everyone dispersed. Alex pushed her long legs to move even faster, catching up to Spencer's quick pace, "Hey, you've been awfully quiet today. I mean, I understand why, but do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't like missing things," he answered as they got into the vehicle. He shut his door with a definitive slam that punctuated his statement. "Everyone has a place, a piece of the puzzle that they fit into and fill out to make the whole team. I'm supposed to be the one who sees the things that others can't see."

"And?"

"And I can't see anything," he frowned, keeping his eyes fixed ahead as Alex punched in the address on the SUV's GPS device.

"Maybe there's nothing to see," Alex replied quietly.

Spencer didn't respond, but he obviously disagreed. With a quiet shake of her head, Alex put the SUV in gear as the navigation system began instructing her.

After a long silence, Spencer spoke again, his face still turned out to the dark night. "What if I miss something on this case, too? What if I just start missing things on a regular basis?"

In those questions, Alex heard the fears that had been a part of Spencer's life since he was a little boy, as well as the fears that had joined them over the years—the fear of losing his mind, of losing the intellect that shielded him from the rest of the world, the fear of finally succumbing to the disease that had taken his mother, the fear of a slow descent into mental decline, the fear of being completely helpless as well as completely useless, the fear of losing the home and the family that he'd built for himself within the BAU, the only place where his skills were not only useful but vital.

She didn't know what to say (there was nothing to say, no words could calm the storm raging in Spencer's heart and mind, no words could guarantee that his fears would never come true), so she simply remained silent.

"It's like standing on the edge of a cliff, blindfolded," he spoke softly, his voice sounding oddly distant and uncertain. "You can feel the wind, you know you're on the edge, but you don't know how far the fall is—it could be four feet, it could be four hundred. All you know is that there's a fall up ahead, and you're just praying that it's one that you can survive. But praying doesn't stop the fall."

Every compassionate instinct in Alex Blake screamed for her to stop the car, to simply reach over and wrap her arms around the sad and lost little boy sitting beside her, to tell him that all was not lost, that they would make it through, but she didn't. Yes, he was sad. But he wasn't a little boy—he was a successful, renowned doctor and a behavioral analyst of the highest caliber, a man who'd suffered and survived so many ills and tragedies of life. And he wasn't lost. No matter how lost he might feel, he truly was where he belonged, where he was meant to be.

And as much as she wanted to tell him these things, she didn't, because she knew that he wasn't ready to hear them. Spencer Reid was taking his own long journey into the valley of doubt, a place he'd traveled many times before and would travel many more times again, and she had every faith that he would make it to the other side. He was right—there was a fall ahead (there always was), and if the fall seemed too long or seemed to spiral out of control, then she would swoop in to catch him and bring him back, but until that moment, she would simply let him be.

Alex Blake was always honest with Spencer. That's what he liked about her. She didn't try to placate him or offer empty promises, she simply listened and nodded in understanding (and perhaps agreement). She gave him space to move through his own emotions and fears and failings, without question or any other attempt to hem him in.

He gazed up at the quiet heavens, dark and beautiful as the stars and planets beamed back at him with the same unwavering devotion that they'd had when he was a little boy. He remembered all the Native American tales he'd read on those celestial bodies, on wolves and moons and seasons and the earth, and he found comfort in those stories, in knowing them, in knowing their history and their purpose, in the joy he'd felt in learning them, in the fantastical pictures they'd painted in the caves of his mind.

And even on a night as beautiful as this, even with the friendship of Alex Blake and the comfort of childhood stories, the insidious whisperings of Spencer Reid's mind continued, telling him things that he never wanted to hear, adding fuel to the fire of his fears, and the shimmering stars above only served to remind him how truly small and insignificant he was, surrounded by the chaos and blindly logical cruelty of the universe.


	44. Line in the Sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The opening quote is attributed to Jennifer M. Granholm, former Michigan Governor, but it's actually a rephrasing of a quote given by Nancy Pelosi, who was requoting "an African bishop", who is Allan Boesak. Though Rev. Boesak's version is very similar, I preferred Granholm's wording. Just trying to give credit where credit's due.

_"When I stand at last before the face of God, God will say to me, 'Show Me your wounds.'_

_And if I say I have no wounds, God will ask, 'Was there nothing worth fighting for?'"_

_~Jennifer M. Granholm._

* * *

**June 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

"Chief Strauss, do you know why you're here?" The director was sitting impossibly still, hands clasped before him in a picture of power and assurance. Erin fought back the urge to roll her eyes like her teenaged daughter.

"Because you called me," she answered flatly, and the almost-insolent tone in her voice didn't go unnoticed. He didn't respond, so after a beat, she gave a heavy sigh, "I'm assuming that it has to do with the Replicator case, sir."

"You would assume correctly."

_So do I get a fucking prize?_  She smothered that comment in her head—there were only so many lines that she could cross today, and she was definitely nearing her limit.

"Chief Strauss, we have discussed this many times. I thought that you understood the situation."

"I thought I did, too, sir. But your tone implies that I do not."

The director leaned forward, the lines above his brows becoming more pronounced, "I thought I made it very clear on Saturday that all protective details would be dismissed  _first thing_  Monday morning. And yet here it is  _Tuesday_ , and I find that while the surveillance detail has been dismissed, the nightly security details are still in place. Would you like to explain?"

Her eyes flickered heavenward, as if asking for patience to deal with this man and his obvious lack of intelligence. "Sir, there is still a direct threat against my agents. After all that they have given for their country and this agency, I don't think it's too much to ask that we at least be able to give them peace of mind in their own homes."

"I told you that I would give you until Monday. The case will be marked inactive again, and the security detail will be dismissed immediately."

"Sir, we've only had—"

"You will let go of whatever crusade you think you're fighting, Chief Strauss. That is an order." He watched her mouth press into a thin, firm line, and for a second, he actually thought that he wanted to know what she wasn't saying, just out of idle curiosity, because Erin Strauss had never been this belligerent before (sure, she'd been pushing the limit over the past few weeks with this Replicator case, but she'd always been cold and practical and unemotional, all the things that she certainly wasn't being today). Of course, he understood that this was different—her son was threatened, and he could understand the instincts of a worried parent. His face filled with concern as he gently continued, "Chief Strauss, it's been over two weeks since the team has received anything from the Replicator. I approved the protection details, I approved the increased security, I even let you make this case active again. But we haven't had any contact from this UNSUB in weeks, and the whole eight-week theory has proven incorrect. We just don't have any more to go on for now, and I think I've humored you enough on this subject—"

He knew that he'd chosen the wrong words as soon as they left his lips.

" _Humored_  me?" On this note, her eyes finally flicked up to meet his, and he knew that she'd finally been pushed over the edge. She kept her tone cool, but those green orbs were burning as she replied, "Excuse me, sir, but I thought you were protecting our agents because you were actually  _concerned_  for their  _safety_ , not because you were humoring me—"

"You know what I mean, Strauss—"

"I hope that I don't, sir, because right now—"

"Chief Strauss." The harsh edge in his voice stopped her immediately. He'd let her gain too much of an upper hand with her righteous indignation, and now he needed to rein her back in. Taking a deep breath, the director continued, graciously ignoring his section chief's breech in professionalism, "I understand that you have an emotional stake in this case, on behalf of your son, and I understand your concern. But I cannot justify this kind of expense, not when there hasn't been a direct threat."

Erin still didn't tell him about receiving the chess pieces. For some reason, she felt that she couldn't trust this man, and she was currently not in the business of pushing aside gut feelings for professionalism—not when Christopher hung in the balance, not when the stakes were too high and too precious.

"Has the team received any kind of communication from the Replicator since the photographs?" The director leaned forward again. Each word was weighted, each question rhetorical, each stone the foundation upon which he built his argument. "And was there a direct taunt with these photographs, or was it simply the photos themselves? How much hard evidence do we actually  _have_  on this case, Chief Strauss?"

She fell silent at his questions, and that was his answer. With a heavy sigh, he looked out the window, to the training fields and the lands surrounding this little kingdom that he'd sworn to protect, so that the people within this world could protect the rest of the country. He understood her caution, her concern, her loyalty to these people, who were her brothers and sisters in-arms, but he also had to look at this from a practical standpoint.

Erin Strauss was a practical person. She was logical and pragmatic—it was that set of qualities which had landed her in her current position. He had to appeal to that side of her, "Chief Strauss, we have already spent so much money and resources on protective details for all seven team members for weeks now, not to mention the agents assigned to the boys. You know how costly that is. I can't keep justifying such expense when for all we know, this guy is dead or incarcerated."

_We're not that lucky_ , Erin thought, and she found herself also hoping that it wasn't so—she wanted a chance to kill the Replicator herself.

"If we receive any further communication from the Replicator, security will be put back in place," the director opened his hands in a magnanimous gesture. Then he clasped them together as he became somber again, "And the team needs to be back in the field again full-time. We can't allow this UNSUB to curtail our activities—we have a responsibility to the entire nation to uphold."

"Sir, they currently are in the field. But I would like to point out that our lull in field time was due to the fact that we hadn't been  _asked_ to join any investigations. The BAU has not stopped conducting their usual duties—we are still actively consulting on cases across the country, still maintaining speaking engagements and attending training seminars—"

"They need to be in the field, Chief Strauss."

"And when they actually receive a request from a local law enforcement office, they will go into the field, sir, without question."

"It looks bad, having them at Quantico."

"I can't help how it looks, sir, and frankly, that isn't my concern."

"It should be." Erin didn't miss the warning tone in her superior's voice.

"Is that all, sir?" She looked up at him again, this time not even trying to disguise her obvious contempt for this exercise in power and position.

He sat back, taking a full beat to give her a hard stare, making her wait, making her realize exactly how the power was distributed in this room—as angry and self-righteous as she might be, she couldn't leave until he allowed her to.

"That is all, Chief."

With a curt nod, she spun around on her heel and left. Sighing heavily, the director sank back in his chair, silently wondering how the section chief who'd once been one of his best and most faithful lieutenants was now becoming one of his most unstable liabilities.

* * *

**Tucson, Arizona.**

David Rossi had never been so glad to see the Bureau plane awaiting them on the tarmac, airstair open and ready to take them in. It was early morning, when the sky was still sickly blue and the air had a strange heaviness that can only be described as the moment before dawn.

Doing some quick mental math on the time difference, David decided that Christopher would probably be awake by now, so he scrolled through his phone's contacts and found his son's number.

"Hey, David," Chris answered, his voice filled with a slightly nervous air.

"Morning, Chris." David looked around, finding himself suddenly oddly emotional at how wonderfully mundane this moment was. "We're leaving Tucson now."

"So…you will be here in time for Mom's ceremony, then?"

"Absolutely."

"Good," his son gave a sigh of relief. Then he got back to business, "Jordan's already talked to Uncle Peter; he'll be here as well."

David smiled at Christopher's thoughtfulness—it was his birthday, and yet, he was busy planning a surprise to celebrate his mother's first full year of sobriety. Erin had already told her children that, as much as she loved them, she didn't want them at the AA meeting (there was too much she had to share, too much that they didn't need to know, and instinctively, they seemed to understand this, because they simply accepted it), so she and David would simply meet them at Chris' favorite restaurant for his birthday dinner afterwards. What she didn't know was that Peter was coming into town, and that they would also take some time to recognize Erin's special occasion as well.

"She's gonna be so mad." Despite his words, there was definitely a grin in Christopher's voice. "Mom always hates surprises."

"I don't think she could ever be mad at you kids. Not about something like this."

"You'd be surprised."

"Ah, she's crazy about you three."

"I know," her son answered simply, with the easy faith of a child who truly does know that he is loved. After a beat, he spoke again, "Thank you, David."

"For what? You're the one who organized this whole thing."

"For being the kind of guy who loves my mom enough to be here for her, no matter what." There was a slight tremble of emotion in Chris' voice, so unexpected that it landed like a sucker-punch to David's gut. Before the older man could even react, Chris continued, "You've...you've been very good for Mom, and very good  _to_  her. Dannie and Anna and I really...we're glad. I'm sure it can't be easy, dating a woman with kids, especially with everything that's happened over the last two weeks, but...but you stuck around, and we're glad you did. So thank you."

"It means a lot to hear you say that," David admitted, though the young man could never truly know just how much it meant. His throat was tightening with unshed tears, with all the things that could never be said or known, and yet, he was certain that he was glowing with happiness.

"Well, I guess I'll see ya tonight," Chris suddenly seemed almost-embarrassed by his earlier confession.

"See ya later," David promised, hanging up with another smile as his heart swelled again with gratitude and love—yes, he still regretted that it took so long for Erin to tell him the truth, but he couldn't be angry with her, not when he still had the chance for so many more moments like this with the kind and thoughtful young man that he could never openly claim. But that part had been his own decision. It wasn't about being able to claim Christopher. It was about simply being proud of the man that his son was becoming.

"Ready to roll?" Alex was approaching him, a slightly sleepy smile on her face as she gave his shoulder an affectionate bump with her own.

"You bet."

"Didja tell Erin that we're on our way?"

"No. I think I'm gonna surprise her."

"You know Hotch has to call and tell her that we're leaving."

"Damn it, I forgot."

Another amused smile slipped across Alex's mouth as she wryly panned, "Must suck, having a girlfriend whose actual job is keeping tabs on you."

He had to laugh at the imagery, at the odd truth in those words. "I don't know, I think it beats having the jealous wife calling to ask where I'm at all the time."

"Oh, we must be talking about Vanessa," Alex grinned, and David seemed slightly shocked that she would remember such a detail. Noting his expression, she arched her eyebrow, "What? You don't forget a woman like that. I think I met her during the McVale shooting case, back in what, '96, '97? I remember thinking that I couldn't turn my back on her because she might pounce."

"Nessa always did see smoke where there wasn't any fire," David conceded. "If it's any consolation, you weren't the only female colleague that she hated."

"I'm sure I wasn't. Insecurity like that creates a long list of supposed enemies."

"She's gotten better, I think." David gave a wry grin, "Well, she got better after she divorced me. She married a man who's attached at the hip, so she's happier."

"Good for her," Alex offered, though there wasn't much enthusiasm behind it. Really, she didn't particularly dislike Vanessa (she didn't know her that well), but she didn't care too much about her happiness, either.

The conversation ebbed once they boarded the plane, and David took a moment to reflect on his last ex-wife. They'd been hell for each other, but he'd tried to keep them together, just because he didn't want to be a failure at marriage yet again. Of course, when you picked the wrong partner for all the wrong reasons, it was certainly doomed before it even truly began.

The end of his first marriage was something beyond his control, beyond Carolyn's control—it was the result of a tragedy, one more loss that seemed part of the inevitable package of losing their son. But the other two unions had been mistakes, and he could admit that now. They were brash decisions, the result of feeling too lonely or needing to find a surrogate for a woman he couldn't have—a woman whom he finally did have, in every way.

In the past two weeks, he'd survived more with Erin than he'd ever had with Vanessa, and their relationship had remained steadier and happier than he and Nessa had been even in the best of times.

Marriage was more than vows and compromises and white dresses and rings. It was about finding the perfect traveling companion on the road of life and publicly deciding that you were always going to travel together.

Had he finally found the one who was meant to walk beside him, for the rest of his life?

As the plane began picking up speed, lifting off the runway and into the brightening sky, back towards the woman whose quiet eyes saw him as he was, truly and deeply, and whose heart still loved him for his imperfections, David was certain that he knew the answer.

* * *

**October 1989. Washington, D.C.**

"Absolutely not."

"C'mon, Abby—"

"That's SSA Van Hals to you, Agent Rossi," the corners of Abigail's eyes were creased in a Mona Lisa smile. "We like to keep it professional here."

David rolled his eyes, "Abby, I've known you since you were a stupid cadet who tried to climb the training run wall in the pouring rain and twisted your ankle so badly that I had to carry your ass back to the barracks."

"And I've always appreciated how you never used that good deed as leverage, to play upon my emotions," she returned wryly.

"Abby—"

"David, I am a SAC in the Washington Field Office. I realize that we have history, but for the love of all that is good and holy, please afford me some respect." She was actually frustrated right now, almost to the point of desperation. "Do you know how hard it is, stepping into Rutherford freaking Golden's shoes? It's been eight months, and I'm still having to prove myself every second of every day, and you and I both know that when Marshall retires next year, I'll be under the microscope for Assistant Director in Charge. ADIC of the District office, David—I'm sure as hell not going to do anything to jeopardize that. Which brings us back to your original request. No, no, no. You know good and well that Golden would have never approved such a thing, and you only came to me because you thought that you could bully me into saying yes."

"Our guy is back, Agent Van Hals," David honored her request, because truly, she had earned his respect a long time ago (actually she'd earned it by being foolhardy enough to try climbing the training wall in what was a complete nor'easter), and he'd never meant to challenge her authority, at least not in a way that actually sparked her inner doubts and inferiorities. "I know it's him, and I need to reassemble the original team—"

"I can't," she sighed heavily, and he realized that she'd never wanted to deny his request. "There isn't enough evidence. I know, you have a hunch, and yes, I know, your hunches are usually dead-on, but if I get called onto the carpet about this, I might as well tell them that I made the decision based on a sign in my tea leaves."

"I understand," he replied quietly. As frustrated as he was at the situation, he truly did understand Abigail's reasoning. He rose to his feet, smiling and easily changing the conversation, "Well, since I can't convince you to back my schemes as an agent, can I at least treat you to lunch as a friend?"

Abigail grinned, silently relieved that he wasn't going to hold a grudge over her refusal, "You certainly may. Lemme finish up a few things in here first."

David nodded, motioning to the hallway, "I'll just be out here waiting."

He closed the door to Abigail Van Hals' office, taking a moment to look around the open bullpen again.

Erin Strauss was at her desk, brow furrowed in an almost child-like expression as she concentrated on a stack of papers. It was funny—despite her training, despite her marksmanship and drive, she always seemed to take on the role of analyst, no matter which department she was in.

She suddenly looked up, and after a brief flash of confusion, she offered a small smile. He moved towards her, and she stood up, moving forward as well.

That's when he noticed the curve of her belly—the gentle swell that appeared in the second trimester, the first true outward sign of pregnancy to the rest of the world.

"Look at you," he motioned to the baby bump. The last time he'd seen her, she was only a few weeks along, and had actually lost weight due to the morning sickness, so she hadn't looked pregnant in the least.

She blushed slightly, her hand automatically smoothing over the protrusion (so easily, so effortlessly, and David thought she actually made a perfect picture of motherhood), "Yep, five months and counting."

Now that she was closer, he noticed the deep grooves under her eyes and the odd almost-unhealthy hue of her skin. "I thought you were past the morning sickness phase."

"Nope," she gave a weary sigh. "My doctor says that some women stay ill the entire pregnancy. That seems to be the case with me."

"It must be hell. You don't look so hot."

"You always knew just how to make a girl feel special, Rossi." She returned dryly, completely unfazed (by now, she was used to his ways, and this certainly wasn't the harshest thing that he'd ever said to her).

"No, I just meant—"

"I know," she waved it away. Then with a grin, she lifted up the edge of her shirt, "Check this out."

Sweet Jesus, Erin Strauss in maternity jeans. Wonders never ceased.

"You know, just in case I get involved in a high-speed foot chase," she quipped, and he had to laugh at the mental image of a pregnant Erin Strauss, wielding a gun and running through the streets of D.C. With a shrug, she added, "It beats having to walk around the office in a muumuu, I suppose."

"I don't think I've ever seen you in a dress," David admitted.

"I'm not really a dress-wearing kind of gal," she made a face. "Doesn't really fit the job description."

"Neither does being pregnant," he pointed out.

There was a strange look that passed across her pale features, and she offered another smile (but this one didn't reach her eyes), "Well, you know what they say—there's never a perfect time to have a baby. But Paul's been wanting to start a family for so long now, we decided that we shouldn't put it off any longer."

David noticed that she talked about wanting children, she said  _Paul_ , not  _we_ , but he wisely stepped around that emotional landmine.

"What are you doing in D.C.?" She changed the subject easily, jerking her chin in the direction of Van Hals' now-closed door.

"Our guy's back," he kept his voice low.

"Roche?" Her green eyes pricked with fear and surprise. "After that bloodbath in Philadelphia, I didn't think that he'd come back to the States for at least a few years."

David tried not to think of the other parts of that strange day, the things that had happened in his hotel room, after the blood had been washed away and only the odd loneliness had remained. Erin must have had the same flash of memory, too, because now she was fiddling with the slender gold band on her left hand.

"Never underestimate the power of a raging egomaniac," David informed her. "Roche's back because surviving that shoot-out makes him feel untouchable. He's practically begging us to come after him again. There's movement in New York again, and I know it's him, but the higher-ups are wanting more hard facts before they reassemble the task force."

Unlike Abby, Erin didn't question David's certainty—she'd worked with him long enough to truly trust him. Instead her thin lips merely quirked into a wry grin, "Well, you know what they say about raging egomaniacs, Agent Rossi—it takes one to know one."

He laughed, suddenly realizing that he'd actually missed Erin Strauss' ball-busting ways, despite the slightly strained way that they'd left things several months ago. He found himself even hoping that he was right about Roche, just so he'd get to work with her again. She was a good sparring partner and a damn good research agent to boot (though he'd die a thousand deaths before ever admitting that aloud).

"You think you'll be able to jump on the road again, if we can finally gather enough intel to prove that he's really back?" He gave a critical glance at her abdomen, trying to keep his eyes from straying further upwards (her stomach wasn't the only thing growing these days).

Her hand went back to her baby bump again, as if shielding it from his disparagement. "I can still keep up with you just fine, old man."

"Hey, watch it. Don't you know raging egomaniacs don't like being called old men?"

Now it was her turn to laugh, and though she wanted to ask how he'd been, she held back (because it wasn't her place, she didn't have the right to know how he was, because he was just a colleague and she was just a fellow agent, something less than friend).

"Strauss," another male voice called across the room, and Erin's blonde head swiveled towards it.

"Yeah, Bukowski, I'm ready when you are."

"Then let's go," Bukowski was opening his desk drawer, slipping his gun back into its holster and grabbing his sports coat from the back of his chair.

With an apologetic grimace, Erin turned back to Rossi, "Field interviews. Got some follow-ups to conduct."

She leaned over her own desk drawer to grab her gun and badge, and David couldn't help but notice that despite her newly reshaped body, she still had a great ass.

"They still let you out in the field?" He was surprised.

"I'm with child, not an invalid." There was an edge of frustration in her tone as she clipped her shield onto her shirt pocket. With a sigh, she confessed, "They only let me out when it's low-risk. Luckily for me, public corruption isn't exactly booming with shoot-outs and high-speed chases."

Suddenly, the corner of her mouth twisted into a wry grin, "Though, I am becoming a bit of a liability these days. I can't wear my usual shoulder holster because it's becoming harder to reach across the vast expanse of my ever-growing form."

"You should be careful," he said quietly, and his soft concern was startling to her, because she suddenly looked up, her green eyes latching onto his brown ones. A beat passed as they simply took a moment to absorb each other's gaze.

"Agent Rossi," Abigail Van Hals opened her office door, her face graced with a happy smile. "Ready to go?"

"Absolutely," he returned her smile before turning back to the younger blonde woman. "Take care, Strauss."

"You, too, Rossi." Her eyes were shielded, almost conveying something unspoken as she lowly added, "I imagine I'll see you again soon."

_I believe you, I have faith in you. Roche's back and this time, we'll get him._

Erin Strauss. The World's Unlikeliest Ally.

He nodded, silently thanking her for the vote of confidence. And hours later, as he made his way back to Quantico, he found his mind straying back to her, quietly running his thoughts over their exchange like the fraying edge of a piece of cloth.

He didn't know why it bothered him, seeing her pregnant, but it did. Sure, he'd known about her pregnancy for months now, but that was before she actually  _looked_  pregnant. It was stupid, but seeing really was believing.

Of course, he also couldn't stop replaying her words:  _Paul's been wanting to start a family for so long now._

He feared the meaning behind them, because he'd known for quite some time how Erin felt about having children (he'd known because he'd actually listened when she spoke, even when she didn't realize that he was listening). He had the saddening intuition that she'd given in to Paul's demands for children as a way of expiating her own sins against her husband, out of guilt and shame—guilt and shame for which David Rossi was partially responsible. Erin Strauss had always been an ambitious soul, and David would never forgive himself if her aspirations were curtailed because of something that she'd done to lessen the gravity of his own actions.

Perhaps he was reading too much into it. He hoped that he was. He hoped that this child had been her choice, and that she was truly happy with the results, because for some completely inexplicable reason, he'd never been able to stand seeing Erin Strauss sad.

She would make a good mother; he didn't doubt it for a single second, though it looked like motherhood was severely kicking her (still finely shaped) ass. She definitely needed someone who was looking out for her—if they did get to work together again soon, David would make it his responsibility to be that person, to make sure that she took it easy and didn't over-exert herself. She probably would not be grateful for his concern, but that didn't matter, as long as she was well. Besides, David was used to having Strauss mad at him. In fact, one might say he even preferred it.


	45. The Final Mrs. Rossi

_ "What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined—to strengthen each other—to be at one with each other in silent unspeakable memories." _

_ ~George Eliot. _

* * *

**June 2013. Washington, D.C.**

On the drive to the restaurant, Erin kept looking at the little token in her hand, like a child with a new toy. David smiled softly as he glanced over at her ( _yep, still inspecting the coin as if it were the Rosetta Stone itself_ ), his own chest filling with happiness at her beaming face, because he knew how hard-won this prize had been.

It was the first time that he'd ever heard Erin speak so continuously about her personal life (she kept some details vague, didn't mention names, but he knew, and it filled him with a sense of belonging, knowing that he was invested in her story in a way that no one else in the room was), and it was the first time that he'd ever heard her speak about her alcoholism with such honesty and candor. He was proud of her, of how unflinchingly she admitted her past mistakes and how vulnerable she allowed herself to be by opening those old wounds for others to see. He met her sponsor, a quiet, serene woman who obviously had a calming effect on Erin, who'd been nervous about sharing the events of the day with David (this was the part of her that Paul never got to see, the part that she kept from her siblings, from her children, from everyone else).

To add to the celebratory mood of the day, it was also Christopher's birthday, and they were on their way to his favorite restaurant for what promised to be a lively dinner in honor of the birthday boy. It was a day of sharing their deepest parts with each other, a day that was filled to the brim with all the things they knew about one another (all the things no one else could ever know, all the things no one else could understand, all the things that united them against the world), and David's heart thought it might burst from happiness.

He glanced over at the source of his joy again, and this time, she noticed, looking up at him with her own amused smile, "Care to share your thoughts, Mr. Rossi?"

He simply held open his right hand, in which she gently placed her left, and drew her hand to his lips, kissing it with the soft reverence of a knight paying homage to his lady-love. He turned his attention back to the snarled traffic, but he continued to hold her hand, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing her now-bare ring finger (an action that did not go unnoticed by Erin).

"It's been a good day, bella," he finally answered her question. "It reminds me that we have outlasted so many other things in both of our lives, and that we've shared things that I've never been able to share with anyone else."

"We've outlasted because we're both too stubborn to quit," she agreed with another amused smile.

"You're always one to add to the romanticism of the moment," he quipped dryly, and this earned him a short laugh that devolved into a warm hum.

"One of my finer qualities, so I'm told."

"I would have to respectfully disagree, madame."

"Respectfully? My, my, how the mighty have fallen." He glanced over again and she was grinning at him with that self-satisfied pussy cat smugness that she wore so well, her eyes dancing as she taunted him. Jesus, she was the kind of woman whom Shakespeare wrote about, his own Beatrice, his Katherina, his woman of wit and fire and sharp-tongued retorts.

He opened his mouth to reply, but his phone rang, reverberating through the car's speakers as the bluetooth function went into action. Erin jumped, startled by the sudden noise, and David glanced at the media screen in the dashboard, where the name  _Vanessa_  glowed across the screen.

He let out a heavy sigh, picking up his phone and hitting the  _Ignore_  button. Erin was still watching him with quiet eyes, taking in the changes that appeared in his movements.

"Of all my ex-wives, she's the only one that I really, truly regret," he announced with another sigh, and he heard the blonde give a small hum of amusement.

"She was the very young one, wasn't she?" Erin frowned slightly as she tried to remember the details (though, truly, she knew, she could never forget, but she didn't want David to know just how much it had affected her).

"Well, chronologically she wasn't that much younger than me," he corrected, and his blonde companion raised a dubious eyebrow. However, he stood his ground, "She was only seven years younger than you, kitten."

"And I'm over a  _decade_  younger than you," she reminded him, furthering her argument. He shot her a dark look and she simply shrugged ( _them's the breaks, buster_ ).

"Either way, emotionally and psychologically, she was very much younger," he conceded, and she gave a slight nod of agreement, silently allowing him to gracefully defer from the debate.

"Now was she number three or four?"

"Three. The last one."

Erin gave another small hum. She looked down at her hand again, to the bare finger that had worn a wedding band for almost three decades. It still looked odd without a ring on it.

David noticed her glance, and he wondered whether she was considering the same question that he'd been contemplating all day.

They arrived at the restaurant, quietly waiting in line for the valet.

"Care to share your thoughts, Ms. Strauss?" He asked gently.

"Vanessa. You said she was the last."

"Yes."

Erin turned to him suddenly, her eyes latching onto his with a deep seriousness. "Let's make her the last and final Mrs. Rossi."

That was not the request he was expecting at all. Leave it to Erin Strauss to forever surprise and confound him.

"What are you saying, Erin?"

"We're not domestic, David. We never have been," she said those words as if they were a point of pride. "I know you're a romantic, and I love that, I do—but I've had the white wedding and the flashy ring and the house in suburbia with the dog and the picket fence, and I don't need that anymore, and you don't need it either."

He didn't respond right away, and suddenly she feared that she'd upset him. She leaned closer, her tone dipping lower as she continued, "I'm not saying that I don't want you, because I do. Te voglio bene, per sempre. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, I want to go for long walks and go spend a weekend out of every year in Seattle and go on book tours with you and always wake up next to you in the middle of the night and do all the wonderfully domestic things that people in love do—every day, for as long as you'll let me. I want that, David. I want you; I want us. I just don't want to be married again."

She held her breath as she asked, "That's alright, isn't it? Is it…is that something you would want?"

He took a moment to think about her words. She'd said all the things that he'd wanted to hear for so long (though not perhaps exactly the way he'd expected her to say them, but when he really thought about it, that actually didn't surprise him because Erin Strauss  _never_  did anything according to his expectations), and now she was quietly asking if that was what he wanted, too.

"Of course it is, bella," he whispered softly, swallowing the lump in his throat as he reached over to caress the side of her face. "It's more than alright. It's perfect. It's…it's  _us_. Of course it's alright."

For once, he was the one fumbling for words, taken aback by Erin's once-in-a-blue-moon verbal eloquence.

She grinned in relief, and he couldn't help but tease her, "But with my proven track record of wedded bliss, are you sure that you don't want to marry me?"

Her smile turned sultry as she gently took the hand that was still cupped around her face, her eyes staying on his as she left a single, deep kiss on the inside of his wrist (the way she'd kissed him on his birthday, the way that never failed to turn his skin into a livewire grid of electricity).

"I've had too much pleasure being your lover to ever want to be your housewife."

Oh, she was laying it on thick—she pushed her voice to an even lower timbre, mimicking the breathy notes of a daytime soap opera actress as she arched her brow provocatively—and David burst into laughter at her over-the-top antics. God, she was horribly wicked and witty, and he couldn't wait to fill every spare second of the rest of his life with more goofball quips just like that one.

She was laughing with him, the deep cackle that could never belong to the shining socialite whom she'd been bred and raised to become, the one that had actually made him realize that she was a good solid dame, all those years ago. The valet parking line moved forward, and David put the car in park.

As usual, Erin was out of the car before he could come around to get the door (she never waited for him, she'd once informed him that waiting for someone to open a door was something that lapdogs and housecats did, and she was nobody's pet—a fact that he could never refute). She slipped her sobriety chip into the pocket of her dress—the same navy tailored number that she'd worn the night of his birthday surprise—before reaching for his hand.

She was feeling festive and frisky, and he liked it, although it only made him want to tease her more.

"So," he let go of her hand and slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer as he gave her hip a squeeze. "Since you won't marry me, does this mean I can take another wife?"

She turned to him with an arched look, the same cool amusement that held just the slightest hint of  _I-fucking-dare-you_  as she sweetly purred in response, "You can try."

* * *

**February 2013. Washington, D.C.**

Peter wrapped his coat tighter against the cold, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he trudged down the sidewalk. He glanced over at his elder sister, who seemed unaffected by the weather, except for the tip of her nose, which was becoming red.

"You're getting old," he informed her.

"Fuck you," she returned easily, though there wasn't any venom behind the words. She'd spent the past fifty years being teased by her brother; it didn't bother her as much as it used to.

"Seriously. Fifty-four—"

"Not for...three more hours," she glanced down at her watch.

He laughed at the technicality. "So, RT, what do you want for your birthday?"

The use of her old nickname reminded her of their baby brother, and tears stung her eyes. Andrew had been gone for six months now, and sometimes she still found herself thinking of him in the present tense—as if he were still here, still with them, still healthy and happy and all the things that he was always meant to be.

"World peace," she answered dryly, blinking quickly so that Peter wouldn't notice the unshed tears building at the corner of her eyes.

He laughed again, bumping her shoulder with his own, "C'mon. I never know what to get you."

"Then don't get me anything."

"Then I'll feel like an ass."

"You are an ass."

"Be that as it may, I am an ass who prides himself on always giving the perfect gift. All my friends say so—they always say, 'Oh, Peter, you always get the perfect gift'. Just like that. High-pitched adoration and all."

"What friends are these?"

"I have friends, Erin."

"The fact that you feel the need to defend yourself implies the opposite."

"Jesus H., you should've been a lawyer. You'd tear 'em up in cross."

She gave an amused hum at what she assumed was a compliment, "Daddy would have disagreed. Always said I was never concise enough."

"Well,  _Daddy_  wouldn't be happy until you were President of the United States." Peter gave a slight shrug, "Luckily, he never expected as much from me."

"Don't say that. He thought you hung the moon and you know it."

"He did," Peter agreed quietly, and Erin heard the question that he didn't voice ( _he did, but would he have loved me quite so much if he'd known what I truly am?_ ).

They stopped at the street corner, waiting on the crosswalk light to signal that it was safe to walk, and Erin took a moment to study her brother's profile. There was more grey at his temples, he had a five o'clock shadow and his hair (as usual) was sticking out at odd angles (because something at work had aggravated him—he always ran his fingers through his hair whenever he was frustrated and he never worried about combing it back into place). They were both getting older, and it seemed that they were only getting sadder, too.

"You need someone to take care of you, Peter," she announced quietly, and he understood all that came with that simple statement.

"You know that'll never happen, RT," he kept his gaze fixed on the traffic, squinting slightly.

"Whatever happened to the guy in your office—the younger one, the whole sideways-glances-and-Jane-Austen-restraint thing?"

He couldn't help but laugh at her description. The crosswalk light signaled that they could cross, so they did, and he simply shook his head as they walked, "It didn't pan out."

"What does that mean?"

"It means it didn't pan out," he shrugged. He could feel his sister's gaze still locked onto his face, waiting for more (Erin always was a patient little spider when she knew that he was holding back). With a sigh, he added, "I'm too used to being a lone wolf, RT. Can't change my ways."

"Bullshit."

He stopped, and Erin turned back to face him, once she realized that he was no longer walking beside her.

"You don't know, Erin," he said quietly.

For a moment he looked so forlorn that Erin regretted being so harsh. But he never let her get away with dodging the truth, and neither would she. She stepped back towards him, shuffling around the people who were walking in the opposite direction.

"I know you, Peter," she returned, her voice just a soft and low. "And I know when you're lying."

There was a beat as he simply looked away. She continued, "You don't have to tell me; that's fine. Just don't lie to me."

She turned back and began walking again. She heard his footsteps bounding to catch up, and he easily fell back into step with her.

"He wanted to take it to the next level," Peter announced.

Erin took a moment to look up at her brother, trying to read the conflicting emotions scrolling across his face, "And...and you didn't?"

"I did...I just...I didn't want everything that came with it."

"I don't understand."

"He wanted us to be a real couple, Erin," he spoke quietly, tucking his hands in his pockets. "And real couples...don't hide the fact that they're a couple."

"Peter—"

"I can't, Erin. I've been in the closet for so long—"

"But, I thought...I thought after...now that Mom and Dad are gone," she hated how that sounded, but it was the simple truth—Paul's main reason for never coming out had been the fact that he feared (and perhaps knew) that it would devastate their parents. Jameson might have been a liberal judge, but it's very easy to say you're OK with being gay, so long as your own children are straight, and Elaine—well, gods, Elaine didn't need any more ammunition to use against her child's already-damaged psyche. Erin cleared her throat, "I thought maybe, after Dad passed away, that...that you'd finally be free. I mean, not free—that sounds horrible, but—"

"I know what you mean," he assured her. With a light sigh, he admitted, "And I thought the same thing, too. I thought finally I wouldn't have to worry about it anymore...and then..."

He fell silent as they walked along, and Erin quietly prompted, "And then?"

"And then I came to the horrifying realization that I've stayed in the closet for too long," he couldn't keep the tears from his voice at his confession. "I-I don't know how, Erin. I can't. I want to, and gods, I've spent years dreaming of the chance to finally be able to be honest about myself, but now...now that it's here, I can't. I'm...frozen."

They reached another street corner, and they dutifully stopped for traffic. She looked up at her brother, who kept his eyes focused on his shoes. At times like this, Erin was reminded of the wide-eyed three-year-old boy who used to be so afraid of the dark that he'd cry out at night, and she, a mere wisp of a five-year-old, would bravely trek down the long, scary hallway of their creaky old house in Somerset to slip into bed with him and quietly whisper in his ear until they both went back to sleep (because Mother never came, never at times like that, because they'd always had just each other, Rin-Tin and Pete against the world).

Of course, that three-year-old had forty-nine extra years of life and experience behind him now, and his fears could never be so easily soothed away again. With a wry, painful smile, he admitted, "I've spent so long living a lie that it became the truth."

She made a small noise in the back of her throat at this pronouncement (because she understood, she understood far better than Peter could ever know). She opened her mouth to speak, but the crosswalk light changed and Peter charged forward. Erin had to double her pace to catch up, and by then, she'd realized that this wasn't something she could fix with words (it was something she couldn't fix at all, and that hurt the most, because she always wanted to fix things, always wanted to feel like she could help). So she simply linked her arm through his as they continued onward.

He smiled slightly at the action, but didn't comment. A particularly sharp gust of wind blew through the street, and Erin huddled closer to him for warmth.

"Who the hell had the brilliant idea to walk six blocks, in the dead of winter?" She lamented.

"It's good for the environment," her brother replied.

"Oh, screw the environment. I'm old, remember? I don't care if the ozone layer won't be here in thirty years. Gods, I'll be dead by then."

He laughed at her feigned grumpiness, knowing that she was trying to make him smile.

"Thank goodness you're not as bitchy as you pretend to be," he informed her.

"Maybe I am. Maybe you've just been so accustomed to it that you overlook the bitch within," she replied.

"I'm your Patty Hearst?"

"Basically."

"I'll take it," he gave a decisive nod, and Erin snorted at the acceptance.

"I think part of the whole hostage thing is that you don't really have a choice at this point."

"Yeah, but aren't you supposed to let me  _feel_  as if I'm choosing?"

"I'm a bad hostage taker."

"You are a bad hostage taker," he agreed somberly, and they both laughed at the pronouncement. Then he returned to the original subject, "Seriously, what do you want for your birthday?"

"I've already told you, I don't want anything. Besides, this is more than enough—you came into town, just to take me to dinner and a movie. It's lovely, thoughtful—"

"It's gay as hell," he informed her. "We're like a politically-correct version of the Golden Girls, Erin."

Now she was truly laughing, her sharp pitch actually startling the people walking in front of them.

"Regardless of this evening's sexual orientation, it's very nice," she assured him, still grinning at her brother's humor.

"I should get you a stripper—"

"What?!"

"Yep. A nice, young strapping thing. Would you prefer European or South American?"

"Is there…do you get to choose those things?"

"For the right amount of money, you do."

"You're horrible."

"You haven't said no to the idea—"

"No. Not in a million years."

"Well, since you're almost that old—"

"Hey—"

"Ya gotta live it up, RT. I could get you a lovely young boy—or if you just wanna go the cheap route, we could call up one of your colleagues from the Bureau, get 'im drunk, and—"

"Peter!" Although she was still laughing with him, he was suddenly treading on dangerous ground.

"What about that adorable young genius on your profiling team? I saw him on television just the other day. He's absolutely—"

"Young enough to be my  _child_ , Peter—"

"But  _not_  your child, Erin—"

"Suddenly, the stripper seems like a better idea—"

"Wait, so that's a yes on the stripper?"

By now, she was laughing too hard to respond, merely shaking her head at her brother's playful insistence. He kept going, "C'mon, I told you, I always find the perfect gift, and I know this is it for you—a stripper's the gift that keeps on giving—"

"Oh my gods, Jameson Peter Breyer—"

"Aw, c'mon, Rin-Tin!" He gave an exasperated huff as he gently nudged her, "How am I supposed to live vicariously through you if you won't live vicariously?"

She merely rolled her eyes, "I think you spent enough time doing that when we were teens—how many water towers did you have to climb to rescue my drunken ass? I'm way past those days."

"There are three types of women who don't want to see a hot young man: lesbians, nuns, and women who already have a hot young man." He took a beat to size her up before asking, "So which one are you?"

She gave a contemptuous snort as she smacked her brother across the chest. "I'm a respectable woman with three children and a career that I'd like to keep, despite my previous efforts to tank it."

At the mention of Erin's alcoholic past, Peter suddenly sobered.

"How are you…how are you doing, by the way?"

"I'm good. Eight whole months without a single drop."

"I'm proud of you."

"Thank you," she said quietly. "It…it means a lot to me, to know that."

"I've always been proud of you, Erin."

"There's the Stockholm Syndrome talking again."

He laughed at the quip, simply changing the subject, because he knew that his older sister had never been good at taking compliments, though she'd spent her entire life seeking praise (it was a strange thing, she worked so hard for it, and then when she received it, she felt like she didn't deserve the approval). He took her hand, pretending to inspect her palm, "Let's see what the future holds for you, Erin Elaine."

"Oh, good heavens," she tried to pull away, but he held her firmly by the wrist.

"I see…a tall, dark, handsome stranger—"

She burst into laughter at the familiar refrain, but he continued, furrowing his brow in mock-seriousness, "Yes, a young, burly pool boy who enjoys giving massages and—"

"I know what I want for my birthday."

"Do you?"

"I want you to shut up about young men, and strippers, and dark strangers, and—"

"Geez, Erin, take all the fun out of life, why dontcha?"

She was still grinning as they approached the ticket line at the movie theatre, though she was grateful for the fact that Peter had abandoned this line of conversation.

She hadn't lied when she told her brother that she was (or at least was trying to be) a respectable mother of three with a career worth keeping. But truth be told, she wasn't past the point of wanting a tall, dark, handsome stranger in her life and in her bed.

Except her imagination conjured up a tall, dark, handsome not-so-stranger. And he wasn't a strapping young thing, either. He was older. Over a decade older. And he was sort of European…and smooth and suave in a way that actually irritated the hell out of her most of the time.

Not that she had any particular person in mind, really. It was just…if she  _were_  to be specific about what she found attractive, well, that would be it. After all, those were very general things—there had to be hundreds of men in this city alone who fit that description.

But it wasn't a random face that popped in her mind when Peter mentioned tall, dark, and handsome…and it wasn't a stranger's hands that she wished for at night, or the memory of a stranger's touch that invaded her dreams and left her waking frazzled and heavy with unfulfillment. It wasn't a mere stranger's voice that had the power to set her skin on fire.

She pushed the thought away—she wasn't ready to deal with that elephant in the room, not yet. Soon. But just not yet. David had agreed to give her a year, which meant she had a few more months to sort out all the thoughts and emotions tumbling through her heart and mind. However, each day brought her closer to the moment of truth, the moment she had come to dread with every fiber of her being, because she knew that when it finally did arrive, it would kill every hope she ever had of seeing those sultry wishes come true.

* * *

**June 2013. Washington, D.C.**

In a moment of stunning clarity, Peter realized that Erin had still kept a few secrets from him over the years. He'd come up to the District to celebrate his nephew's birthday and his sister's first full year of sobriety, and as he sat across the table from Erin and David, he couldn't help but notice the similarities between Christopher and the man whom Erin had supposedly been dating for only a few months.

Surely he was wrong. Surely it was just a coincidence.

After decades as an attorney, Peter Breyer had learned that there rarely are coincidences. He started studying Christopher in earnest, seeing how many points of physical connection there were between him and David Rossi (hair, eyes, general height and build, but the nose was Erin's, so was the chin).

Yes, they did look very much alike. However, the real clincher was the way David looked at the younger man—the kind of barely-concealed beaming pride that only fathers could wear. And the way David looked at Erin (and the way Erin looked at him)—that was not the look of new lovers. No, there was depth and knowing and years of history in those glances and nuances, in the easy way her shoulders shifted closer to his, in the way they moved around each other, so comfortable and at-home in each other's space.

_Oh, Rin-Tin. Could it be true?_

Erin looked up, and when she noticed her brother's expression, her face drained of all color. Peter had his answer, loud and clear.

Suddenly, he felt like laughing. So he did.

* * *

After dinner, Christopher decreed that the group would walk down the next block to the ice cream parlor, and since he was the birthday boy, everyone agreed. As they were leaving the restaurant, Peter slipped up behind his sister, his hand resting on her shoulder as he quietly whispered, "You don't have to say anything, Erin. I know."

She whirled around, the fear practically screeching from every pore of her body, and he quickly allayed her qualms, "Jesus, I won't say anything, either. I just...I just wish that you would have trusted me enough to tell me."

A wave of sorrow passed through the eyes that were so much like his own, and he knew how she must have struggled with the decision for so many years. They had shared (almost) everything, had survived so much, simply through the strength of each other, and he knew how hard it must have been for her to keep this from him, how guilty it must have made her feel, knowing that there was an imbalance between them.

The rest of the group were walking ahead of them, completely oblivious, happy and laughing and cracking jokes, looking like a perfect little family unit. It was a lovely moment and Erin hated how fragile it all was, how everything still hinged on one wrong word, one broken promise. Erin sighed, tears brimming in her eyes, "I didn't want—you liked Paul, and I was afraid that you would be angry with me, and I never wanted...I didn't want to burden you with knowing something like that."

"Have you...have you loved David Rossi, this whole time?" Peter asked quietly.

His older sister looked down at the sidewalk, "I don't know. I didn't think that I did, back then...but now I think maybe I did. But there were so many years in-between, and we fought, and...and now we're finally able to be something more, and now I do know that I love him."

Peter took a beat to absorb all this new information. "Did he always know about Chris?"

"No. I just...I told him a few weeks ago."

"So...you lived with this, alone, for all these years?" Peter's heart was breaking for his sister, for his beautiful strong sister who had kept this secret for so long. He understood the loneliness of secrets, perhaps better than most.

She nodded quickly, blinking back tears. Then she shifted closer to him, "We decided...Christopher can't know. It...it would kill him. And Paul—oh, Paul would be devastated. And the girls—"

"I understand, Erin," her brother quietly interrupted.

"Are you—are you mad?" There was a quiver in her voice that tore at her brother's heart.

"I could never be mad at you," he answered simply. "Never about this. Not when you're so happy. I just wish you would have trusted me enough to tell me, after all the things I've shared with you."

"I know," she returned quietly. "I wanted to, and there were a few times that I almost did, but...I never thought that I'd tell David, and I knew that you and Paul were such good friends, and I never wanted you to feel like you had to choose—"

"Rin-Tin, you're my sister, my blood. I would always choose you, no questions asked, no ifs, ands, or buts."

"But I never wanted you to choose. I'd already taken so much from Paul, I couldn't take your trust, too—"

"And you  _gave_  so much for him, Erin," Peter's voice was low but firm. "Yes, I considered Paul a good friend while you two were married, but I was trying to make the best of the situation—I knew from day one that you only said yes to the man because you were too afraid to say no, because Mother wanted it so badly, because Paul wanted it, because you always were a yes-girl and you hated the thought of disappointing everyone. I can understand why you did what you did with David, and why you hid it. I'm not mad, I'm not judging you or disapproving of your life choices. In fact, I'm damn proud of you for finally saying yes to something that actually makes you happy, and for finding real love, perhaps for the first time in your life. End of story."

Erin looked up at her brother, slightly shocked and deeply touched by his words.

"Erin," he gave a sadly amused smile. "You've always been there for me—why in hell wouldn't you think that I'd do the same for you?"

"Everything OK?" David had slowed down, looking back over his shoulder at the two Breyer siblings.

Erin gave a small nod, quickening her pace to catch up to him, "We're fine. Just catching up."

With one last grateful smile at her brother, Erin turned her attention back to David, whose arm was easily slipping around her waist, his thumb lightly rubbing the fabric of her dress (his hand just high enough that the motion was almost brushing the curve of her breast, sweet and soft and almost-improper, so very David in every way). Her own arm instinctively wrapped around his back as well, their steps falling into comforting sync, her chest filling with airy happiness at the simple moment.

Peter took a moment to observe the scene playing before him—Chris, Anna, and Jordan at the front, laughing and occasionally bumping each other around on the wide sidewalk, looking over their shoulders to throw teasing retorts to Erin and David, who were walking together with the calm assurance of two people deeply connected through time and love.

There had been pictures like this, whenever Erin and Paul were together, when the children were much younger. However, those pictures had been tinged with sadness, because Peter had always known that in order to create the image, his sister was pushing back her true self on some level. But this time, in this moment, there was no sense of such a thing. For the first time in a very long time, Erin was vibrant and present and truly overjoyed.

_Good for you, Rin-Tin. Good for you._

They walked along in silence for a few beats before David quietly asked, "What's on your mind, kitten?"

"You." She answered simply, tightening her hold around his waist.

She didn't look up into his handsome face, but she knew that he was smiling, "Care to share some of those thoughts?"

"Perhaps later." Her voice dipper even lower, careful not to be overheard by the children in front of them, "And if you're really good, I might even  _show_  you what I'm thinking about."

He gave a warm chuckle, leaning over to whisper in her ear, "Bella, you know I can't be good—not around you."

She giggled in response, and though her head pulled away from his lips, her lower body shifted closer, her hip bumping his as they walked along. David cast a furtive glance ahead, making sure the kids weren't watching, and he pulled her closer again, his mouth landing on the curve where her neck met her shoulders, the prickle of his goatee making her giggle again and the wet warmth of his mouth making her gasp at the same time.

"Watch the public displays of affection, you two," Peter warned playfully as he bounded to catch up to them, and Erin blushed.

Anna turned around, horrified, "Really, Mom,  _in public_?"

"Absolutely," David retorted with another grin. "Your mother's too beautiful not to be adored every second of every day."

This earned him a few light protests from the three Strauss children, who all shook their heads and pretended to be dismayed by the lack of decorum (though they were all smiling). Erin was blushing an even deeper shade of red, from the valley of her breasts to those dancing eyes as she gave him a light spat across the chest ( _behave yourself, David Rossi_ ).

"Well played, Agent Rossi," Peter nodded in approval. In a low aside, he added, "Someone's definitely getting laid tonight, with all those brownie points."

"Peter!" Now Erin turned to give her brother a cuff on the shoulder, and David burst into laughter.

"What?" Jordan turned back around, her face scrunched in confusion.

"You don't wanna know, Dannie," Peter informed her somberly, and she made a face in response. They arrived at the ice cream shop, and David held the door open as everyone else slipped in. Peter sidled up to his sister again, smiling as he whispered, "See? How could I not be happy for you, when it's all so adorably wonderful?"

She looked up at her brother, expecting him to mock her, but he was being serious. Her own expression softened as well as she quietly agreed, "Yes, it is wonderful."

David was behind her again, the weight of his arm slipping around her shoulders and pulling her body back to his, and she felt a warm tremor zipping down her spine at the possessiveness of the gesture (she remembered how desperately she'd wanted that same kind of touch last year, at the Big Smoke event, and how she still loved it now, how she loved being able to silently declare to the world,  _yes this man is mine, and I am his, and there's nothing you can do to change that_ ).

Oh, wonderful was too ordinary a word to describe this. And yet it was the only word coursing through her brain.

_Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. Simply wonderful._

* * *

_ "He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same." _

_ ~Emily Brontë. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would bet good money that, due to the title, this chapter didn't end the way you expected. And because by now, you know me, you actually weren't surprised. As always, thank you so very very much for all of the reviews, alerts, adds, etc. Stay the course a little longer, chickadees. We're almost there!


	46. Nostra Culpa

_ "You can clutch the past so tightly to your chest that it leaves your arms too full to embrace the present." _

_ ~Jan Glidewell. _

* * *

**June 2013. Washington, D.C.**

After ice cream, everyone dispersed—Christopher and Jordan to some late-night showing of a summer super-hero action flick, Anna back to her father's house for the night, and Peter back to his own city. Erin had been nervous as hell, letting her children go out into the wide, wide world without a protective detail, but David had reminded her that they couldn't live in fear, and he had quietly assured her that all would be well. Eventually, she'd believed him, and for the first time in a very long time, she allowed herself the simple luxury of hope.

There was a lovely contented silence as Erin and David walked back to the restaurant to retrieve the car, David humming softly as his fingers played with the fabric at her hip and Erin simply relishing the sweetness of the moment.

"I like that," she spoke gently, slightly pulling him from his thoughts.

"What, bella?"

"The feeling of your arm around me. I like the certainty of it."

He gave a small hum of understanding, because he understood the emotions behind her words—after so many years of odd chances and uncertainties and vagueness, it was refreshing and wonderful to actually feel the weight of knowing. They stopped at the crosswalk, waiting on the light to turn, and his hand slipped up her spine, his fingers tangling themselves in her hair as he tilted her head towards him, leaving a kiss on her temple.

She turned her face slightly, her lips on his ear as she added in a whisper, "I like how possessive it feels."

"Do you?" There was warm amusement in his tone, tinged with curiosity. She hummed in affirmation, the corner of her mouth quirking into a smile as they continued across the street.

The people who were walking near them were finally far enough away for her to continue without being overheard, though she still kept her voice low, "Last year, at Big Smoke, that's all I wanted, you know. I wanted you to put your arm around me, I wanted everyone to know that at the end of the night, we were leaving there together...I wanted... _ownership_ , if that makes sense."

"Perfect sense," he assured her, and suddenly he was feeling every single aching second of the past three nights which had been spent without her. Her hand was slipping underneath his coat, back up his spine, and he could feel the heat of her palm through the fabric of his shirt, and he wondered how he could have missed her so deeply after only three days, while still wondering how he'd survived a whole three days without her. His own hand moved to the nape of her neck, lightly feathering the smooth skin and the wayward wisps of hair that had slipped from her chignon. She gave a small shudder in response and he grinned at how easily she always reacted to his touch. Silently, he was thankful that they'd decided to spend the night in Vienna—he surely didn't want to have to wait any longer than he had to before unwrapping this delicious woman and enjoying her to the fullest.

Obviously, Erin was thinking the same thing, because she murmured, "You need to get me home, David Rossi, before I get in trouble for public indecency."

He merely chuckled at the quip, tearing his gaze away from those glowing eyes long enough to acknowledge the valet, who went to retrieve the car. Soon they were happily on their way, her hand on his thigh and her chin on his shoulder as he navigated through traffic.

"You know, I can't concentrate when you're all over my like this," he informed her, though he didn't really seem bothered by the current situation.

Her voice was teasing, filled with a knowing warmth, "I'm sure you'll somehow find the will to get us home safely. You always were a determined man, especially when there was an incentive."

She nipped his shoulder through the fabric of his coat, her hand moving further up his thigh, fingers pressing deeper into his flesh.

"Bella," he warned. "You keep this up and I'm gonna have to just pull the car over and have you here and now."

"Would you really?" Her eyes lit up with playful curiosity. "Would the infamously cool Dave Rossi be pushed to such—"

"Only by you," he interrupted, though he actually enjoyed her teasing. They'd been sparring all evening, though not in the earth-shatteringly blood-boilingly explosive way that they used to, and he enjoyed feeling the sparks of a good retort or a witty one-liner. They were at a red light, so he had a few moments to level the playing field by taking his hands off the steering wheel, his right hand straying to the buttons on the front of her dress, slipping one out of its buttonhole and pushing back the fabric to reveal the first hint of the soft skin underneath.

Erin's eyes were electric, fastened to his face with humming fascination as she held her breath, waiting for his next move. They were surrounded by people in cars and he was actually beginning to undress her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"I have very fond memories of this particular outfit," he admitted, his hand slipping through the open space, his fingertips rejoicing at the first brush of the smooth outline of her bra, smiling as he remembered the last time he'd taken this dress off her—the night of his birthday, the night that everything had truly changed.

"David, we're in the middle of traffic," Erin's voice was filled with breathless wonder, but despite her protest, she was shifting in her seat, angling so that he had better access, allowing his fingers to push over the cusp of her cup and sample the warm, tightening breast beneath.

"And?" He looked up with an expression of feigned confusion. "Didn't I state earlier that you're much too beautiful not to be constantly caressed and adored?"

One would think that this woman had never been complimented before, the way she blushed at his words. The light turned green and sadly, David's hand withdrew, returning to its place on the steering wheel. With another crooked grin (because he'd heard her sigh when he pulled away), he added, "Besides, you were the one who started it, kitten."

She laughed at this man and his impossibly childish logic, "Oh, sure, blame it all on me."

And because she'd been feeling giddy and playful all evening (and because she knew exactly what it would do to him), she leaned forward again, her voice dipping into a purr, "So long as that's not all you lay on me, il mio amore."

"Erin Strauss, you are incorrigible," he used the descriptor that she'd so often used on him.

"Well, if I start something, I might as well finish it," she shrugged nonchalantly, and he was grinning again, taking her hand and kissing it warmly.

"You'll get no argument from me, bella."

"Wonders never cease—I thought I'd die before I ever heard such words from your lips, David Rossi."

He laughed at the quip, shaking his head at her flippancy. She was vibrant, bright in the way that she used to be twenty years ago, before they'd both broken and rebroken each other's hearts, and he loved it—things had been so heavy, so dark and serious these past few weeks, and it was nice to know that there was still so much room for play. After everything, there still had to be some parts that remained the same—like the quiet intensity that was already settling into the car's atmosphere as they moved closer to their destination, the blood-pounding anticipation of things to come.

"You know what I'm looking forward to the most, bella?" He asked softly, keeping his eyes focused on the road ahead. "With everyone gone, we can be as loud as we want."

The image inspired by this admission made Erin's throat go dry, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe. Finally, she found her voice again.

"David Rossi, tu es très coquin."

* * *

**Vienna, Virginia.**

Since Anna's car was gone, David parked in the garage, next to Erin's crossover. By now, things were positively electric, the final breath before the plunge, and their eyes kept finding each other, having silent conversations, affirming the mutual sensations already coursing through their veins.

He was grabbing his go-bag from the trunk, and she brushed past him, head down as she rummaged through her purse for the key to the back door. Suddenly, he turned, grabbing her arm and pulling her back to him with unexpected ferocity, his mouth smothering her sound of surprise as his hands brought her hips to his own. And though the action caught her off-guard, Erin quickly recovered, pulling his mouth further into her own as she stepped backwards, almost falling against her vehicle.

"This is ridiculous," she panted as she finally pulled her lips away from his. "It's only been three days, and we're acting like—"

"No more talking, bella," he growled, recapturing the sharp tongue that had been taunting him all evening. She moaned in agreement, sinking slightly as her hands snaked up his back, her fingers pulling against his jacket, trying to take in every ounce of him.

They broke apart for air, and she slipped out of his grasp, moving away from him, her eyes still shining. He stooped to pick up his bag once more, each movement slow and measured and so full of intent that it stirred a tremor of anticipation in the pit of her stomach. She searched for her keys again, moving back to the door, and soon he was behind her, hands and mouth seeking her out as she unlocked the door. There were a few beats of calm before the storm as she disengaged the house alarm and they tossed keys and bags and purses to the side of the hallway, but as soon as they turned back towards each other, all the air disappeared from the room as hands reached for the places and things they'd been missing for what seemed like an eternity of need.

Her hands were in his hair, pulling his mouth back down to hers as the rest of her body pressed against him, seeking his weight and his warmth. He shrugged out of his jacket before allowing his hands to return to her body, and she was moaning into his mouth at the first contact of his hands on her waist, which only made him grin ( _if you like this, bella, just wait until I really start touching you_ ).

As usual (as it always was with this man), it was all too much and not enough for Erin—all evening, there had only been time for a few quick kisses and brief, stolen touches, and now that the world was gone, she wanted nothing more than to simply devour him whole. She wanted to tell him this, wanted to tell him that Peter knew their secret, wanted to tell him how much she'd missed him, how she loved him so, and yet, David had said  _no talking_ , and she was nothing if not a rule-follower (at least when it came to these types of games, these types of rules). So, she decided that she would let her mouth do the talking—without saying a single word.

Her lips strayed from his own, moving down the column of his throat, taking the time to sample the flesh beneath them, smiling as she felt his pulse humming just underneath the skin. She was unbuttoning his shirt, pushing back the collar to reveal more of the body that she'd missed so much over the past few days.

It took every ounce of self-control that David Rossi possessed to remain still, to simply keep his hands in the nest of her blonde locks, to let her continue bestowing these tokens across his skin, but he remembered her words from earlier— _I wanted ownership_. He could give her that, could show her that she had full possession of his heart and his soul, every aspect of his affection from the emotional to the physical.

Her breath was quickening and her hands were trembling as she continued down the row of buttons on his shirt, her mouth never leaving his warm skin. She removed his shirt and took a moment to simply wrap her arms around him, to hold him, to feel him against her again, to soak up the heat of his body with a shuddering sigh that almost seemed like a prayer of gratitude.

However, gratefulness soon turned to greed, and her mouth was seeking him out again, and this time, teeth soon followed, with fingers that pressed into the smooth curves of his shoulder blades, pulling his closer, conveying the frenetic need that was building within the blonde frame that suddenly seemed so much smaller than his own, though even now he could feel her strength, could feel just how easily she could overpower him, even if just for a second.

For example, he felt the full strength of her hands as she pushed him against the wall of the small, cramped hallway. He felt the things she was holding back as she planted those hands on either side of his shoulders, allowing only her lips to touch him as she traveled back up his throat. But he didn't want her to hold back, so his own hands pulled her into him again, pressing into the curve of her spine, silently encouraging her for more.

She took this permission with both hands (literally), grabbing his shoulders and further pushing him into the wall as her mouth moved downward again, alighting on his nipple, which she bit and sucked as her hands trailed downward again, her fingernails pressing just deeply enough into his flesh to be felt. Then she was unbuckling his belt, her agile hands slipping past the fabric to encircle his cock, stroking him with a harsh neediness that only sent more sparks across his skin. He released a low moan in response, and she could feel his lungs tighten as he held his breath. Her forehead was rolling against his chest and she was whimpering, all teeth and frustration— _please give me something, push when I push you, bite back, fight back, please, please, anything, please…._

With a growl of his own, David took her head with both hands, kissing her fiercely as he turned the tables—spinning her around and pinning her against the wall. Now she was moaning in approval, holding her hands up in surrender, allowing him the chance to do whatever he wanted.  _You belong to me; I belong to you._

David's could barely think over the blood and fire pounding in his ears, over the sounds of her heavy breathing mixed with his own, a strange little symphony that only increased his hunger. His hands were quickly unfastening the remaining buttons on her dress, but the inside button wouldn't come undone, and he needed to feel her skin  _now_ , so he simply gave the fabric a rough jerk. There was a light pop, followed by the sound of a button skittering across the tile floor, and she made a small sound of dismay at the thought of her ruined dress, but her concerns were quickly forgotten when she looked into those dark eyes and saw the desire radiating from them like a pulsar. No man had needed her so much that he'd actually ripped her clothes off, and the realization of the effect she inspired in David Rossi was both wonderful and intoxicating. He pulled her forward by her hips, far enough away from the wall to let her slip the dress off her shoulders, taking a moment to appreciate the simple black full slip that she wore underneath. The moonlight was spilling through the large French doors in the kitchen, slipping down the hall and tracing the outline of their forms, bringing attention to the lines of her collar bone—one of his favorite parts of Erin's body, because the warm, soft skin over those delicate bones always seemed in need of a good, hot kiss.

Erin watched these thoughts play across the outline of David's face, her body shivering with anticipation and her heart swelling with pure, unadulterated adoration for this man, this man for whom she would move heaven and earth, this man to whom she would give everything, even before he asked. He stopped time with a single touch, his fingers tenderly tracing the upward curve of her collarbone, ghosting over the slope of her shoulder as he pushed her bra strap away. He brought that beautiful mouth to her neck, so sweetly and reverently that she actually thought she might cry as she turned her face to heaven, granting him better access.

If longing and relief had a taste, it would taste like Erin Strauss' skin, David decided. Before, she'd been a bundle of pounding nerves and frenetic need, but she'd become pliant in his hands, and though he loved her for her sense of fair play, it wasn't what he wanted—or needed—right now. After so many nights of fear, of soft, quiet love-making and deep, long, somber talks about the uncertain future, he wanted the flash and fire of old, the original spark that had started this twenty-eight year flame.

He pulled her into him again, this time his teeth grazing the flesh of her neck, and she moaned in response, her arms suddenly wrapping around his bare back as her fingers bit into his shoulder blades again. With one arm around her waist to steady her, David's other hand went to her hair, pulling her head to the side so that he could enjoy the taunt line of her neck. She was arching into him, encouraging him with hums and little gasps, which he returned with growls of his own as her mouth found purchase on his skin again, returning his nips and caresses, matching his movements as best she could in her current position.

His hands were moving again, pushing up the hem of her slip, singing with delight at the feeling of her bare skin beneath his fingertips. She rolled against the wall, turning her body so that her back was turned to him, her hands bracing against the wall as her hips pushed out against him, pressing, seeking, asking, calling. His hands were still at her waist, so they simply slipped further down again, peeling her underwear from her hips. She shifted, bringing her legs closer together so that he could remove the clothing without difficulty, and his hands firmly pressed along the lines of her legs, enjoying the feeling of her taunt muscles, straining even more due to the height of her heels. She stepped out of the simple black underwear, and he grinned at the wetness that he could already feel on the fabric. Taking a moment to admire the cut of her calves, David nipped the soft skin at the back of her knee, grinning again as he felt her shift, shivering, pressing, wanting more.

Erin wasn't sure that she could remain on her own two feet much longer—David's hot mouth was sucking on her skin, sending waves of fire through her blood, and she felt like she might just dissolve into a puddle on the floor. He was standing again, his mouth tracing the curves of her shoulder blades, coming back up to the place on her neck that always made her entire body freeze at the lightest sensation of his touch. His hands were moving, slipping around to cup her breasts, pulling her closer to him, and she loved the solid strength of his arms around her body. Still it wasn't enough, and it only increased the heat pounding through her body at a rate that seemed dangerously close to exploding. His mouth moved again, to the curve where her neck met her shoulders, and she gave a huff of impatience—David heard a light smack as her hand slapped the wall in frustration, and he found her aggravation adorable (though he was smart enough not to say so, because Erin Strauss would  _hate_  being thought of as adorable, especially in a moment like this).

His hands disappeared, and Erin gave a sigh of relief when she heard the light rattle of his belt buckle, the sounds of him pushing his clothes further down his hips, and she silently rejoiced at those aural heralds of the release to come, and David bit back another chuckle at her antics (he never could understand why everyone called her the Ice Queen—he'd never been with any other woman as hotly alive as this one, as deeply passionate or as aggressive, how could anyone ever think she was frigid?). His hands glided up the sides of her hips again, pushing up her slip, and she shifted in response, pushing her hips out further. He could feel the heat radiating from her core before he even entered her, and they both let out a soft moan of happiness when he finally did enter, slowly absorbing every sensation that flitted across his skin at the familiar  _belonging_  that only came from being with her.

He was moving slowly, with deep, purposeful stokes, and she was panting again, giving small huffs and mews (partially because she knew that was what he wanted to hear— _we can be as loud as we want, bella_ —and partially because really, she needed more and he was moving much too leisurely for her frenzied nerves). And the sounds coming from David Rossi certainly weren't helping the situation either—he'd never been very loud (or vocal at all) during sex, and now he was moaning with her, answering her whimpers with growls of his own, and dear gods above, Erin was certain that soon, there would be some kind of explosion to rival Hiroshima, and there would be nothing left of either of them, except outlines of their shadows on the wall.

Suddenly, the phone rang, and for a moment, they both stopped.

"Answering machine," her voice was ragged and she was certain that she was nearly incapable of forming complete sentences.

He hummed in agreement, resuming the movement of his hips, thought this time he was moving even more slowly, enjoying every inch of the wet heat that was tightening around him, which earned him a growl of irritation from his partner.

After a few rings, Erin's automated voice filled the room, "You've reached the Strauss family. Please leave a message."

David couldn't help but chuckle at how detached and calm the recorded voice sounded, compared to the woman who was currently making inhuman noises, arching into his hands, which were still at her hips.

There was a beep, and then Paul Strauss' voice came on the line, "Erin, it's Paul. Just calling to let you know that Anna made here, safe and sound. Talk to you soon."

Erin's shoulders were shaking, and suddenly, David heard her laughing breathlessly (though he wasn't sure what was so funny—having sex while her ex-husband droned on in the background brought up too many memories of before, of too many times when they'd both committed horrible sins against this man). He pulled away, and she stopped, turning to face him.

"David?" Her expression was suddenly fearful, confused.

"Bad memories, bella," he answered simply, trying not to be angry at her, because this certainly wasn't her fault (or at least not entirely).

She was moving to him again, her hands cupping the sides of his face, forcing him to look her in the eyes, "That's all they are—memories, love. There's nothing wrong now."

He shifted away again, pulling up his pants and walking towards the kitchen, and her heart broke.

"Please don't do that. Don't pull away from me."

The aching in her voice stopped him in his tracks. He turned around again, "I'm not pulling away, Erin. I'm just—"

"You're pushing me away," she corrected, her voice hardening as she crossed her arms over her still-flushed chest as she followed him into the kitchen. They'd discussed and re-discussed the past so many times now, and Erin had thought that they were finally ready to move past it all, but obviously David wasn't there yet. "Is this how it's always going to be, David—you and your damn Catholic guilt, ruining any chance we have at being happy, even for the tiniest moment?"

"Erin, I don't want a fight."

"I don't, either. I just want an answer."

"You're not gonna like what I have to say."

"And when has that ever stopped you before?" Though her tone was still mainly filled with angry hurt, the corner of her mouth quivered in the briefest of almost-smirks, and he felt the tension in his chest go down a notch.

He took another deep breath, "Well, at some point, we are going to have to acknowledge exactly what we did—to each other, to our spouses, to your children, to our son—"

"We've paid that debt, David."

"Have we?"

Those two words hung in the air like a death knoll. Erin simply stared at this man, this man who stood in her home, the moonlight spilling over his shoulders in a way that made her heart catch in her throat (because he was beautiful, yes,  _beautiful_ , in every way, physically, emotionally, spiritually, and now he was pulling away and she couldn't breathe, couldn't look at this man and know that he didn't believe in her the way that she believed in him).

She slowly shook her head, the tears already threatening to overflow as she kept her eyes locked onto his, "I've done a lot of things that I'm not proud of, David. And there may have even been times that I hated myself for what I did to Paul—for what I did with you—but I never, never regretted it, even when I wanted to, or when I thought that I should. We've spent the last twenty years punishing each other, and I'm done. I'm done feeling guilty for wanting you, for wanting to be with you—gods dammit, I have waited long enough, and so have you."

She never raised her voice, but there was still vehemence behind her statement—and more importantly, there was sincerity. He took a moment to contemplate her, to contemplate her words and her simple truths.

"You really believe that, don't you?" He asked quietly, and she couldn't read the light in his eyes, which only scared her more.

"I do," she gave a small nod, fighting down her own fears.

How could he not love her in that moment? She had always had more to lose and less to gain by their relationship, she'd always had more to hide, more demons to deal with, and yet, she had never seemed to doubt its worth, had never lost an almost-blind trust in whatever strange thing that was between them.

"Do you?" She asked, taking a tiny step forward, her eyes so wide with fear and her voice so heartbreakingly small as she repeated, "Do you regret the times before? Do you...do you wish they had never happened?"

God Almighty, here this woman stood, looking somehow an angel despite the devilish appearance of her flushed skin and messy hair and slinky black slip, so full of fear and rejection that he thought she might shatter his heart completely—to think that, even for one second, he had let her doubt his love, his devotion, his all-consuming passion for her, this woman who could rend the foundations of his very existence with a single look, a simple touch, and for whom he would gladly suffer any torment.

"I could never," he shook his head, swallowing the lump in his throat as he quietly admitted, "I tried to—I tried to regret it, many times in the past. But I just couldn't."

He saw the tension in her shoulders melt into relief, but her eyes were still wary as she asked, "And don't you think we've paid the price? After all this with the Replicator, with the way we were torn apart and thrown back together again, the absolute hell of the past few weeks, don't you think we suffered enough?"

He felt the truth of those words long before he even answered, "Yes, bella. I think we've atoned for this, in some way."

"Atoned?" Now it was Erin's turn to feel a pang at her lover's sadness. "Do you really think that you need to atone for what we've done?"

He looked down at the ground.

"Is that what you need? Some kind of confession, some admission of guilt?" At first, he thought that she was angry, that she was mocking him, but then she moved to him, cupping his face with her hands again—when he looked into those eyes which seemed ghostly-grey in the wan moonlight, he suddenly realized that she was utterly serious. She would do whatever he asked, give him whatever he needed (even beg forgiveness from a god in whom she no longer believed, even admit to wrongs that she did not truly consider wrongs, if that was what it took). Her voice was filled with love and pleading as she asked, "What do you need, David?"

"I honestly don't know," he admitted softly. "And that's what makes it worse."

He saw another wave of compassion roll across his lover's face. She pressed her lips into a thin line for a beat, mentally weighing some inner question. Then she gently tilted his head towards hers, until his forehead rested against her head, and she closed her eyes, her voice as soft and reverent as if she were praying, "I confess to marrying a man whom I did not love. I confess to staying with him longer than I should have. I confess to running from my feelings for you, for not having the strength to tell you the truth about so many things a long time ago. I confess to wasting over thirty years of my life trying to be something and someone that I'm not, for all the wrong reasons. I confess to being fearful, petty, weak—"

"Bella—"

"But I also confess to not regretting a single moment spent with you. Even the moments that broke my heart."

The light pressure of David's fingers on her lips stopped her confession, and she opened her eyes again to see tears shining in the dark orbs that were just a breath away from her own.

"I never regretted what we did," he assured her, his voice husky with emotion. "I just…I hated the thought that I had somehow ruined your shot at a simple, happy life with Paul. I never wanted to harm you, or to take away any chance of happiness that you might have had. If we hadn't…if we had never started down this road, if New York had never happened, would you still be with him now?"

"I don't know," she answered truthfully. "But I know that if I were, I would be horribly, horribly unhappy. And probably still a raging alcoholic, even more detached from my children than I already am—"

"Don't say that. Don't you ever say that," he kissed her forehead fiercely, and his protectiveness made a small frisson of simple happiness burble in her heart. "They love you. They know you love them. Don't say that, please."

"I won't, so long as you promise that you'll never blame yourself for whatever happened between me and Paul," she agreed quietly. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes again as she simply rested her head on his chest, "We got married for the wrong reasons—it would have ended, one way or another, and we would never have been happy, no matter what happened. Please understand—I need you to understand that, more than anything else."

"I understand, bella," he assured her, pulling her even tighter into his embrace. He felt her shoulders shift as she gave a deep sigh of relief.

Then she pulled back suddenly, giving him a rough shove, "And David Rossi, don't you  _ever_ scare me like that again!"

"What?"

"Oh, don't play innocent. You can't want to marry me one minute, and the next suddenly wonder if we should regret ever being together at all. You can't make me fall so hopelessly in love with you and then scare me like that—"

"Like what? I was merely asking a question," he was grinning now, because he could tell that her anger was really playful relief, because although her tone was reprimanding, her hands were running up his arms and over his shoulders and chest in a way that was reigniting the fire building between them earlier. It was crazy, how easily they tumbled back into playfulness—it was a skill developed over the years due to their line of work, an ability to quickly set aside hurts and forget grudges, using humor as a shield, as a way to heal and reset, and now it was something that they so effortlessly brought into their personal relationship that it simply fit.

Still, she was shaking her head at him, giving him another light shove as she continued with her feigned irritation, "You profilers and your damn mind games—"

"That was not a mind game. I would never play mind games with you—"

"Liar."

"It was a legitimate question," he assured her, wrapping her in his arms again so that he could stop her from shoving him.

"Well, it was horribly timed," she informed him. He gave a small hum of agreement as he captured her mouth with his own. After a beat, his expression filled with amusement.

"Hopelessly in love with me, huh?"

She rolled her eyes heavenward, "You tease me for not being romantic, and then when I do say something poetic, you tease me for being romantic."

"Maybe I just like teasing you."

"I've noticed."

"You're the kind of woman who should be teased often."

She hummed in amusement, her fingers burying themselves in his salt and pepper locks as she brought his mouth to hers again.

"There are other things that should be done to you often, too," he admitted in a warm, low tone.

"Oh? What things?"

He chuckled at how well she played the wide-eyed innocent (yes,  _kitten_  was and had always been the perfect moniker for her, regardless of how she loathed it). He took her face in his hands, the pads of his thumbs gently brushing her cheeks, mapping out the contours of her visage in the shadows, "Well, for starters, you should be kissed—well and deeply and very, very often."

"How?"

"Like this." He drew her smiling lips to his again, brushing them tenderly, sweetly taking the time to absorb their texture, their taste, their warmth, dragging his teeth lightly across her bottom lip, to which her mouth opened in response, allowing him the perfect excuse to slip his tongue between her teeth. She hummed in approval, using every last ounce of self-discipline to keep herself perfectly still, to let him show her exactly how he felt. His fingers kept tracing the outlines of her face, as if he were a blind man trying to learn how she looked, trying to commit every nuance, every shade, every line to memory, and the reverence in his touch created a longing in her that pulled with such great force that she thought she might actually stumble back under the weight of it.

David was supposed to be the one in control of this moment, but Erin was moaning softly, pushing her breath into his mouth, and he felt his heart stop for a full beat—how could such a simple action have such a dynamic result? Then her hands gently came to his wrists, her thumbs lovingly rubbing against his pulse points, returning his caresses with a sweet tenderness of her own, though each circle of her thumb sent another ripple across his skin.

Then she pulled away, her eyes dancing mischievously as she asked, "What else? What other things?"

"Hold your horses, kitten. I'm still demonstrating the first point." He grinned at her expression, at her impatience as his hands moved down to her waist, taking a moment to admire the form still half-hidden by her slip, "That was just a warm-up."

"Really?" She bit her lip, trying to reign in the smile blossoming across her face. Of course, David still saw it, and he grinned again, that smug grin which made Erin unsure of whether she wanted to kiss it away or simply smack the expression off his face.

He leaned in again, repeating the first part of the kiss—tenderly grazing her lips with his own, nibbling on the bottom lip was that now red and wanting from their last kiss—but then, instead of entering her mouth again, his lips trailed down her chin, taking a moment to suck on the pulse point at the top of her throat before continuing further down. He finally reached his favorite nesting place, the curve of her collar bone, and he put all of his affection, his fiercest devotion into bestowing a kiss on that spot. Her head rolled forward, her lips brushing his ear as she gave the softest of sighs. His hands drifted beneath the hem of her slip, sliding across her bare skin as his fingers found their way underneath the wire of her bra. He held her, using his thumbs to massage those soft breasts, which were tightening and aching under his touch, as his other fingers pushed into the sides of her ribcage, the pressure of his motions actually moving Erin's entire body (and again, he remembered how much smaller she was at times). She closed her eyes and purred happily at the sensation, giving another slight gasp as his oh-so-lovely mouth continued downward, tasting the supple flesh that his fingers were pushing out of her cups. And now Erin's hands were back in his hair, slipping down his neck and shoulders, her own fingers pushing and searching on his flesh, just as David's were on her body, being so careful not to disturb her lover's ministrations.

David was using his teeth again, and Erin gave a breathless chuckle at the sensation of his hot breath rippling over her skin, creating a wave of goosebumps in its wake. Her knees almost buckled again, and the muscles in her legs reminded her that she couldn't last in these heels much longer. She pulled away, dancing out of his reach as she moved closer to the master bedroom—however, she stopped before reaching her destination, giving a wicked grin as she turned to him, leaning back against the dining room table.

Her lover got the message loud and clear, because he began grinning again, in that full-faced, bright way which made Erin think of how he must have looked as a little boy, or as a charming, dashing young man. She simply watched him, waiting for his next move, taking in every nuance and shift of his form in the faint moonlight that poured through the French doors, making everything seem sable and silver, adding a flair of drama to the unfolding scene (so suited to her lover, who was nothing if not dramatic, in all the best of ways).

He stood just inches from her, his fingers barely tracing across her shoulders, gently pushing away the straps from her bra and her slip, smiling softly at the unbroken expanse of the delicious skin on her chest, his voice husky as he explained, "Now, bella, kissing is just one of the things that you should experience often, because you see, you are what would be classified as a full-package woman."

"Oh?"

"And as such, there are certain things, which should be done on a daily basis, to fully engage your body, mind, and soul."

"Oh, my. And what types of things would those be?"

He placed his hands on her hips again, his face completely serious as he informed her, "I think it's best to simply demonstrate this next point, bella. If I use words, something might be lost in translation."

"Well, we certainly wouldn't want that."

"No, we wouldn't."

She gave a warm hum of amusement as his hands tightened their grasp, his thumbs pressing into her pelvic bones as he lifted her hips, setting her on the edge of the dining room table, and as she leaned back, using her arms for support as her legs left the floor to wrap around his hips, pulling him back to her. He leaned forward, and she met him halfway, closing the gap between their mouths, which met again softly, sweetly, each movement of their lips increasing in pressure and passion. Blindly, he reached back, slipping her shoes off her tired feet, and she gave a sigh of relief, wiggling her toes and flexing her heels at the sudden freedom. Then his hands were slipping back up her ankles, up the curves of her calves, down the lines of her thighs, around her hips and back up to her waist, snaking up her back and pulling her shoulders closer to him, allowing his tongue to forge deeper into her mouth, which was beginning to fill with the familiar huffs and heavy breathing of earlier. Her hands were caressing his arms, his shoulders, the heat from her palms pressing into his flesh with a reassuring weight (he loved it, loved feeling the weight of her touch, so assured and unafraid and unashamed, so unabashedly adoring and openly affectionate, things he never thought he'd feel from Erin Strauss' hands, which had held his beating heart for so long). Then her warm hands were traveling down his torso, unzipping his pants again, pushing away the last bits of fabric that separated them again.

Her hand reached for him, lightly caressing his member with a ghost of a touch, just enough to send a flush of fire across his skin before she guided him back inside, her warm wetness only increasing the flames instead of quenching them. She gave a heavy sigh of relief, her teeth lightly sinking into his shoulder as he began to move inside of her, turning her head so that he had access to her neck, which he gladly accepted, moaning into her skin as he simply tried to acknowledge every sensation, every ripple of emotion and taste and touch and sound and sight that his lover afforded. Her arms were around him again, her hands splayed across his lower back and his shoulders, fingers pressing deeper into his muscles, encouraging him with each thrust, humming her approval and enjoyment as her lips and teeth continued leaving little blessings across his skin.

Erin could feel that David was close to the edge, but it was an odd angle and there wasn't enough pressure or friction for her—she felt her frustration building as she felt her orgasm shimmer and dance just beyond reach.

She reached up again, grabbing his head in her hands and kissing him fiercely before gently pushing him away. He stood back, slightly confused, and she tried to regain her breath enough to explain, "Sit. I need you to sit."

He simply nodded, sitting in a dining room chair (looking slightly ridiculous with his pants still around his ankles, but Erin's eyes were not focused on his feet), holding his hands out to her, and she gave another breathless smile (because he didn't question, he simply let her take what she needed, her thoughtful and always caring and careful lover, and it only made her adore him more). His hands went to her waist, holding her steady as she straddled him, slipping her knees on the sides of his hips (silently thanking her former self for choosing the dining room chairs with arms, which acted as holsters, allowing her to basically kneel in the chair). She braced herself by gripping the back of the chair as his hand pushed up the hem of her slip again, the other hand guiding himself back inside of her core, and she gave another moan of relief, because a simple change of angle was already helping push her closer to the edge.

She was moving again, and his hands were on her ass, pushing her further, pushing himself deeper as his mouth found purchase on the flushed flesh of her chest again, and she leaned further in, her skin starting to shimmer and spark with the familiar sensations that started deep in the cavern of her hips and seeped into the rest of her blood with a power more intoxicating than any alcohol. She was making incoherent sounds again, and David was answering her, which only increased their mutual fervor.

David felt Erin's body tightening and coiling with the first signs of her climax, and he tightened his grip, rising to meet the grinding of her hips with his own, trying to hold back his own orgasm while praying that hers would come soon.

Suddenly, Erin became quiet, and he could feel her holding her breath—he pulled her as deeply onto his hips as he could, his mouth landing on her collarbone again as he heard the cry rumbling in his lover's throat, feeling her silken walls clenching and trembling around his cock, and he finally allowed himself to tumble into release too, pulling and clutching at her curves as he felt the blissful golden relief of his own climax.

Erin was laughing again, in a hoarse, breathless way as her bones slowly began to melt, her forehead resting on his shoulder for a moment as he simply held her, his hands tracing the curve of her spine, trailing along her back in small circles.

She sat back, and his hands moved to her waist, steadying her as she gingerly placed her feet back on the floor. Pushing a few wayward locks of hair from her face (a truly futile gesture, for there was more hair out of her chignon than whatever was still left in place) and rearranging her displaced slip, she offered another grin.

"Well, I guess it goes without saying now, but I don't think that I told you how much I've missed you since you've been away."

And suddenly, David was laughing with her, as he sat and she leaned against the dining room table, both completely disheveled and thoroughly debauched, happy and breathless in the silver strains of the summer moonlight, both knowing that somehow, tonight, they had crossed yet another hurdle on the path from who they used to be to what they were always destined to become.

* * *

_"What you need to know about the past is that no matter what has happened, it has all worked together to bring you to this very moment. And this is the moment you can choose to make everything new. Right now."_

_~Unknown._


	47. Still Life

_ "You act like mortals in all that you fear, and like immortals in all that you desire." _

_ ~Lucius Annaeus Seneca. _

* * *

**February 1988. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.**

Twenty-nine. Holy fuck. Twenty-nine years old.

Erin Strauss took a moment to stare at her reflection, lightly trailing her fingers over the fine lines under her eyes that seemed to materialize overnight, whose appearance certainly wasn't helped by the harsh fluorescent lighting of the women's restroom in William J. Green Federal Building. She didn't consider herself a vain woman (how can you be vain, when you're not even beautiful?), but she felt a certain tremor of fear at the realization that today, thirty was now only 365 days away.

She used to tease her older friends about their almost-neurotic approach to being thirty, the women who bewailed this somehow-magical age, but suddenly, she understood.

Thirty was the mark of adulthood. You were supposed to have your shit together by thirty, supposed to be a well-rounded mother of two with a perfectly balanced career and a happy husband, and all of your great life goals should already be fulfilled. Thirty was the gate, the entrance to the rest of your life.

Looking back, Erin Strauss realized that she was nowhere near as far along in life as she'd thought she would be at this age. She was grounded enough to realize that her earlier ambitions had been a bit unrealistic, but that didn't stop the clawing feeling in her chest, the rapid ticking of her mind's clock saying:  _Time's a-wasting, Erin, pick up the pace, go, go, go, before it's too late!_

Shaking her head in an attempt to dispel her thoughts, she took one last look in the mirror as she gingerly tried to fix her hair, taming her long blonde curls into a semi-presentable chignon.  _Work with what ya got, Erin. It'll have to do._

With one last deep breath, she re-entered the world of the Bureau, back to the White Collar bullpen, where she grabbed a thick file from her desk as she moved quietly to the conference room.

Luckily, Goodwin wasn't in the room—the past week had been absolute hell, because his favorite sports team had lost and he was taking it out on her, simply because she was passive enough to allow it. Erin had been pushed to the edge several times, and she wasn't sure that she could contain her temper much longer. However, she beamed a deep, true grin whenever she saw the person who was waiting at the conference table—Rutherford Golden, SAC of the D.C. Office's Organized Crime Unit.

"Ruthie," she leaned forward to offer a quick, solid hand shake. "How are you?"

"I'm well, Erin," he returned her smile with a bright one of his own as he settled back into his chair (because he'd stood when she entered the room, an old-school move that was endearing and effortlessly classic, like Rutherford himself, who always reminded Erin of a silver-screen actor from the days of elegant black-and-white films). "How about yourself?"

"Oh, all's fine here." This time, her smile flickered slightly, and he knew that she was lying—of course, everyone knew what an absolute bastard Goodwin could be, and he had no doubt that Erin Strauss was probably his favorite verbal punching bag. She just had a personality that would incite Goodwin, passive-aggressive with the lock-jaw tenacity of a bulldog, because while she probably never verbally took a stand against her supervisor, she'd stayed longer than almost any other female agent who'd been under his supervision, as if she were simply trying to prove that she could outlast anything that he threw at her.

Ruthie decided that he actually admired her for that.

"OK, so...Glauman," Erin opened the well-worn manila folder with a deep breath. "I'm assuming you want everything we've got, which I honestly could have just copied and mailed to you, saved you a trip—"

"I was already in the area," he informed her easily. She looked up, her light green eyes filled with curiosity, and he smiled (she was always so bright and quick, that was the first thing he'd noticed about her, and this only furthered his confidence in his decision).

Despite her curiosity, she didn't press the subject or ask questions. She simply nodded, "Fair enough. Now, like I said earlier, this is pretty much a complete paper trail of everything he's ever done or thought about doing for the past twenty-two months."

She ducked her head, focusing on the papers as she flipped through the contents of the file, and Rutherford knew that he'd made the right decision—Erin Strauss was an absolute gem of an asset for any department. Usually, you had to choose between having an agent who was intuitive and bright but ultimately brash and unstable, or one who was dependable and good at taking orders but unimaginative and unable to notice minute patterns. However, she was the rare combination of the best of both worlds—in the Philly WC, she was already seen as a bit of a whiz kid at collecting and compiling data from reputable sources, and Ruthie had seen first-hand how well she followed orders, how she never asked unnecessary questions, how she played well with others and always, always stayed between the lines.

"Would you like to know why I was already in Philadelphia?" He asked, interrupting her shuffling. Those big doll eyes snapped back up to his face again, surprised and still curious, so he continued, leaning across the table conspiratorially, "I've come to wrangle a deal with Goodwin."

"What sort of deal?" Erin Strauss was impossibly still, as if she sensed what was coming, but didn't want to jump to conclusions (yes, he'd made the right choice).

"I'm stealing you away, Strauss," he informed her, and he saw the shift of her shoulders, the beginnings of a smile forming at the corner of her eyes. He was grinning, and they were like two children sharing a wonderful secret, "I want you to come join us at the District office. In Organized Crime. If you want to, that is."

"If I want to?" She gave an incredulous laugh. "Of course I want to, Ruthie!"

"Really?"

"Really." Then she sat back, giving him a knowing smile, "Of course, I'm sure you knew that I'd take the offer long before you came up to Philadelphia."

"Well, I didn't want to be presumptuous."

She laughed again, then looked down at the file, "So...Glauman?"

"A ruse. All a clever ruse," he admitted, and suddenly she grinned, her conspiratorial smirk matching his own.

"You've already spoken to Goodwin, then?"

"Yes. Not that he really has any say over the matter—I know the right strings to pull to make it happen, no matter what. But Goodwin...well, he's a special kind of strange. Things would go so much more smoothly if I came here, in person, to ask him. Less hurt feelings. Occasionally I still have to work with him, and I'd prefer to keep it as civil as possible. That man holds a grudge better than anyone I know."

"Trust me, I know," Erin assured him, and Ruthie hated the truth behind her words. Then she brightened again, "I can't believe I'm getting to go back home to D.C. You know, I'm just keeping an apartment here, and Paul has one in the District—he couldn't leave, because of work—and it's been such hell, trying to travel back and forth every weekend. He'll be over the moon. This is probably the best birthday present ever."

"It's your birthday?"

She nodded in confirmation, and Ruthie chuckled, opening his arms in a magnanimous gesture, "Well, happy freakin' birthday, Erin."

They both laughed at the quip, but their amusement was cut short by a sharp rap on the door.

"Agent Golden?" A receptionist peered around the edge of the door. "Agent Goodwin wants to see you in his office again, before you leave."

"Thank you," Ruthie gave a slight nod, and the receptionist disappeared. Then he turned back to Erin, and they exchanged knowing looks. He rose to his feet, "Well, I guess I better get over there—one last dance across eggshells, and we'll be home free. Next time I'll see you, you'll be walking through the doors of the District Field Office."

She smiled again, nodding, "See you in D.C., Ruthie."

After he left, she sat back in her chair, both relieved and elated. She'd hated almost every second of her time spent here, but she had accepted it for what it was—everyone had to spend some time paying their dues at the Bureau, and she was doing just that. She honestly had expected to live in this hell for several more years before she finally got transferred, so this was a welcome surprise.

She was going home. Although the first half of her childhood had been spent in Somerset, her true home would always be the District. She found it clean-cut and comforting, filled with some of the best memories of her life, and she'd missed it, just as she had missed being able to live in the same place as her husband (being apart had certainly put a strain on their marriage).

She went back to her desk, her mind already mentally packing up the items inside. With a deep, happy sigh and a slight smile, she looked around the bullpen.

This was the start of something big. She knew it.

Her life was finally, truly beginning.

* * *

**June 2013. Vienna, Virginia.**

Erin Strauss catalogued her own features in the mirror hanging over her dresser as she put on a pair of earrings. The early morning sunlight seeping through the windows seemed only to accentuate the lines at her mouth and around her eyes, but she found that she didn't care (much). Her skin was glowing from sunshine, sex, and happiness (a winning combination, one had to admit), and her eyes were clearer than they had been two years ago, when everything was kept beneath a haze of alcohol, and she looked more like the determined young agent of yesteryear who had slowly slipped away over the decades.

Of course, the main source of her new-found youthfulness was just over her reflection's shoulder, still in bed, smiling at her with an adorable sleepiness that made her want to slip out of her structured black dress and back under the covers to kiss the tip of his nose and cuddle and coo and do all those stereotypically lovey-dovey things that new lovers do.

Now it was David's turn to sit quietly as he watched Erin move about the room, preparing for the day ahead. Since they'd spent their weekend on the case in Tucson, the BAU team had been given the day off, but it was a Wednesday, which meant that Erin Strauss was still fully expected to be in the office.

"What are your plans for the day?" She asked casually, glancing at his reflection in mirror before going back to her jewelry box to find a necklace.

"I think I'm gonna knock out a few more chapters on my book," he replied, rubbing his forehead as he thought of how his publisher was already hounding him for an advance copy of his latest writing endeavor. "Then there's a few things that need to be done around the house—a few trees need trimming, basic lawn work."

"So...I'll come out to your place tonight?"

"What about the kids?"

"Jordan's back at her own apartment; it's Paul's week to have Anna, and Chris is staying at the dorm—he starts summer semester next week, and after two weeks of living with his mother, I'm pretty sure he's ready to be around people his own age."

David grinned at her assessment. She took another deep breath, and he heard the shakiness behind it. He knew what it meant, although he still quietly asked, "Y'okay, bella?"

"Just...it's not easy, thinking about him going back to campus, knowing that the Replicator has been there, and without any kind of protection," she trailed off, not daring to finish her thoughts. She gave a quick jerk of her head, as if she were physically trying to stop her mind.

"C'mere," he reached out for her, and she moved to his side of the bed, perching on the edge as he simply wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. She took a deep breath, relishing the warmth of his bare chest against her cheek (and smiling at how sweetly he was trying to avoid messing up her hair, because he knew how finicky she was about her appearance).

David didn't try to placate her or fill her head with empty promises, and she was grateful for that. Instead, he quietly admitted, "It's scary as hell."

"It is." Her voice was filled with relief, because at least she had someone who understood her burden.

After a beat, David started slowly changing the subject, focusing on the positive instead of the negative, "He's a good kid."

"He is," Erin agreed warmly, gently pushing away from him and rising to her feet again. She planted a kiss on his forehead. "He gets that from his father, I think. Thank you, by the way, for helping him with the little surprise with Peter last night. It was very sweet."

David held his hands up in feigned protest, "That's all the thanks I get—one little peck on the forehead?"

"I think you received quite enough thanks last night."

"I think not."

She was moving again, back across the room to the closet, pulling out a nicely-tailored bolero jacket to go over her dress. She gave her lover an arched look, "Are you saying that you were dissatisfied with last night?"

"Absolutely not." This earned him a light hum ( _that's what I thought, buddy_ ). He held up a cautionary finger, "However, that was not a 'thank you'. That was simply a 'welcome home'. There's a difference."

She pretended to seriously consider his argument, and not for the first time, he loved her for her cast-iron poker face.

"So, you're saying that I still owe you some kind of debt of gratitude?"

"I am."

"And how, exactly, are you expecting this debt to be paid?"

He gave a nonchalant shrug, "I'm sure you'll think of something."

"I'm sure I will." He didn't miss the warm playfulness behind her tone, the way her green eyes were already dancing with the beginnings of an idea that would inevitably make for a thoroughly enjoyable adventure (during one of their great shout-outs over twenty years ago, he'd once called her the most unimaginative person that he'd ever known, but now he realized that was an absolute mistake). She crawled across the bed to offer one last kiss—a quick, chaste one that only made him want more, but she was moving away again, slipping out of his grasp with a devilish grin. "I'll see you later, my love."

He smiled at the promise, shaking his head in disapproval of her teasing ways, which only made her grin deepen. He heard her moving around the kitchen, preparing a travel mug of coffee, and he decided to give one last goodbye (and maybe even the score a little), so he slipped out of bed, grabbing some boxers from the neatly folded stack of laundry that she'd left at the foot of the bed and stepping into them as he made his way to the kitchen. She was too absorbed in making her coffee to notice him, so he gently wrapped his arms around her, trying not to startle her too much, and she easily followed the pull of his arms, leaning back against his chest.

He started kissing her neck, savoring the fresh scent of her perfume, "I like when you wear your hair up."

"David Rossi, I do not have time for this. Not this morning."

"Time for what?"

"Has anyone ever told you how horribly fucktacular you are at pretending to be innocent?" Despite her protests, her voice was a warm purr as one hand strayed to lightly ruffle through his dark hair. Then she returned her attention to her coffee, adding the last of her crème and screwing on the lid, "Besides, you had every opportunity to join me in the shower this morning."

"You didn't tell me—"

"It's an open invitation. Just comes with the territory. I assumed you knew."

While she was busy explaining, he was busy kissing the curve of her neck, up to her ear, which he was currently nibbling. She tried to shrug away, which only made him tighten his grip around her waist as he hummed happily at her obvious irritation.

"Call in sick today," he returned his mouth to her neck.

"You really are the devil."

He chuckled at the prognosis, his hand slipping up to her breast, "Does that mean you'll give in to temptation?"

He pulled her in closer as his mouth moved to the smooth skin at the back of her neck and he felt her jerk slightly, as if her knees has momentarily given out due to this simple contact.

"David Rossi, you bastard," she reached back, giving him a reprimanding smack on the hip.

"Ooh, Erin, kinky. I like it."

"Oh dear gods above," she rolled her eyes, finally finding the will power to push his arms from her body, slipping out of his embrace and maneuvering away so that he couldn't grab her again. She moved back to the other end of the kitchen island, grabbing her briefcase and slinging her purse over her shoulder as she fixed him with her best Strauss Specialty Freeze Glare. "You are absolutely horrible."

With one last look that would reduce a normal man to ashes (but had a different fiery effect on her lover), she clipped down the hall and into the garage.

David looked over. She'd left her coffee on the counter. He grinned.

He was still grinning like the cat that ate the canary when he went out to the garage. At first, Erin was busy messing with the dials on her radio and didn't notice, but when she turned and saw him, she gave a slight huff of irritation, shaking her head at how she'd let him have another point in this strange little game between them (he'd driven her to the point of distraction, and he knew it, knew it because she couldn't even remember what she was doing when he kissed her, because he had the power to shatter her ability to think or to stay on routine with a simple touch).

She rolled down her car window.

"Forget something, kitten?" He was still grinning devilishly. She snatched the travel mug from his hands.

"I hate you right now," she informed him succinctly, turning her regal nose away from him with such a dramatic air that he had to laugh.

"Don't worry. I'll make you love me again tonight."

"Presumptuous ass." She sniffed, hitting the garage door control that was clipped onto her overhead visor.

He had to lean forward to be heard over the metallic sounds of the garage door lifting, resting his elbows on the window frame, reaching into the car to let his finger lightly trace over the curve of the breast that was hidden beneath her dress, practically purring with smug delight as he watched the color rise across the exposed skin of her chest, "But you don't deny that I will do just that."

She shot him another heated look, "I'm leaving now."

He grinned at her irritation, at her childish petulance (because he'd tempted her with something that she knew she couldn't have for many more hours), "I love you, Erin Strauss."

"Gods dammit, I love you, too, David Rossi."

* * *

**March 2012. Quantico, Virginia.**

Jordan Elaine Strauss stood at the threshold of her mother's office, wishing for all that she was worth that the earth would simply open up and swallow her whole.

She had to do this. She was the eldest, this was her responsibility. She was the one who had finally pushed her mother to seek treatment (the first time), the one whom her mother had called on her way to detox (the second time), and now she was the one who would help her mother adjust to life in the sober lane.

Mom was coming home next week, after fourteen weeks in a treatment facility. It was easy to stay sober in a room with four stark white walls, where no one let you have any freedom or control, when you were  _forced_  to stay sober. The counselor had explained to everyone how crucial the first few months of returning to the "real world" would be—especially since Erin would be returning to a divorce and a dying brother and a day job that was stressful as hell even on the best of days.

By now, Jordan knew enough about alcoholics in general (and her own mother in particular) to know that her mother kept stashes of alcohol everywhere. Which was why she was here, at Quantico, at her mother's office—to clear away any temptation that might be left behind.

She hated the sneakiness of it, the distrustfulness behind the action, the understanding that she was entering a place that did not belong to her, a place that she was not invited. But it was an act of love, and she would perform this duty if it killed her.

"Are you—do you need some help or something?" Her mother's assistant, Carrington, was hovering over her shoulder, hands clasping and unclasping nervously. This was the first time they'd ever met, although they'd spoken on the phone several times as Jordan was trying to arrange access into the building (Carrington had offered to clear out the office for her, but Jordan didn't want anyone else seeing, didn't want anyone else knowing her mother's dark secrets, because she had an overwhelming need to protect her mother, because that was Jordan's life philosophy—family first, at the expense of everything else).

"No. No, I think I'll be fine," Jordan snapped out of her stupor and took a deep breath as she finally entered the room.

It was calm, well organized, logical and tasteful and so like her mother, with nice colors and good, solid furniture. The sense of Erin that filled this room was so strong that her daughter felt a sudden tightness in her chest, a longing for simpler times, a longing for her mother to be what she used to be—strong and sheltering and in-control and loving and  _present_  and here, with Jordan, with her family, where she belonged.

She moved gingerly, as if she somehow feared disturbing the balance of her mother's room, slowly taking in the contents atop the desk—the family photos from years ago (they hadn't had a family portrait in ages, and now it seemed like a sign of the times), the little paperweights, the worry stone worn with grooves left by hours of being rubbed by her mother's thumb (Erin used to keep them everywhere, in a bowl by her bedside, one in the cup-holder of her car, some in a dish in the living room, and she'd simply pick them up, almost without even realizing it).

She shouldn't be here. With a sudden sense of urgency, Jordan scooped up the gilded wastebasket, quickly opening and closing the drawers and cabinets of the large hutch-credenza behind her mother's desk, trying not to look at anything, trying only to find the little bottles hidden between the binders and books and stacks of papers. She moved to the filing credenza, then to the bookshelf on the other side of the room. She saved the desk for last.

The commotion in Erin's office had suddenly fallen silent, and Carrington took a moment to glance in the open doorway. Erin's daughter sat at the desk, looking so much like her mother that it took Carrington by surprise. She hadn't seen the resemblance until now—it wasn't a likeness in physical traits, but a likeness in physicality, the way Jordan's shoulders shifted downward, as if she were carrying the weight of the world, the downward turn of her mouth that seemed like resting bitch face but really was a mind distracted by too many thoughts and not enough answers, the strange airiness of her fingers lightly moving over the surface of the desk as she reached for the family photo, the clear determination of those green eyes as they searched for some unattainable answer in the picture frame.

Carrington had actually missed her boss—and sadly, she was pretty sure that she was the only person in the building who did. The people underneath Erin knew her too well to miss her, and the people above her didn't know her well enough to miss her. Carrington knew her, and more importantly, she felt that she understood her. After seven years of taking care of Erin Strauss, Carrington had probably witnessed more sides of that woman than anyone else in the Bureau, and because of that up-close-and-personal view, she felt that she had a better grasp on Erin's true personality, on the daily demands of her position, on all the unique factors of her existence.

For the first time in almost fourteen weeks, Carrington had found someone who shared her sense of loss (though she knew and understood that Jordan's longing was deeper and stronger than her own, there was still some piece of empathy in it). She timidly stepped into the doorway, a small sad smile as she admitted, "You look like her, you know—sitting there, just like she does."

"We don't look alike," Jordan corrected, her voice matter-of-fact but not unkind (reminding Carrington of Erin yet again). "We just...we have the same mannerisms."

"That's what I meant."

"Oh." Jordan seemed as if she temporarily regretted her earlier statement, but she quickly covered whatever emotion flitted across her face before Carrington could actually identify it. After a beat, she motioned to the bonsai plant, "Thank you, for...taking care of it."

Carrington nodded, another soft smile on her lips as she admitted, "I couldn't let it die, or even...your mother would be upset, if I let it get unruly. It was her way of relieving stress, just zoning out for a few minutes, trimming the leaves. I could always tell how bad her day was, based on how much she pruned away."

Jordan gave a smile at the last comment.

"I come in here and trim it at the table," Carrington motioned to the little conference table at the other end of the room. "It feels too strange, sitting at her desk."

"It feels like her," Jordan agreed, looking around the room with a wistfulness that saddened her mother's receptionist.

"How is she?" Carrington took a few steps inside the room.

"She's well," the younger woman answered diplomatically, and Carrington suddenly remembered what Erin had once said about her eldest daughter— _she's got more age than her actual years, she's always been a grown-up, she was a four-year-old adult, always serious and sometimes sad_.

She could see that, could even see the unspoken lines in Jordan's face as she turned to the window.

"I don't know when she's coming back here, though," Jordan admitted, giving a slight frown. There was another thoughtful silence, during which Carrington heard her sigh, saw her shift, felt her mentally weighing her next thought. There was something she wanted to share, something she wasn't sure that she should share, something rattling around in her chest that needed to be expressed in some way to someone (and Carrington understood that, understood that feeling of helplessness and loneliness, that feeling of singularity, of isolation, of needing to be connected).

Against her better judgment, Jordan finally voiced her thoughts, "She missed her birthday. Two weeks ago, I tried to go out to see her, but there was this thing, and I...I didn't go. When I called to apologize and wish her a happy birthday anyways, she'd forgotten. She said she hadn't really thought about it."

With a sudden shake of her head, Jordan turned back to the office, standing as she resumed a curt air, "I don't know why it meant so much to me, or why I'm telling you—"

"I'm glad that you did," Carrington spoke quickly, trying to soothe whatever jagged edges were left by the opening of this wound, by the vulnerability of the moment. Suddenly, she became shy again, but she continued onward, gently, hesitantly, "It's...it's good, sometimes, just to tell other people our stories. Because most of the time, they understand, because they have stories like that, too. And then...then you realize that you're not so alone."

Jordan took a moment to scrutinize the brunette (with the same odd clinical efficiency of her mother), simply stating, "You have stories like that, too."

It wasn't a question, or even a guess. She understood that Carrington's expression was one of empathy, not merely sympathy.

The older woman simply nodded, but she didn't elaborate any further, so Jordan didn't pursue the subject.

"And thank you," Jordan motioned around the office."For letting me in, for whatever strings you had to pull—"

"It wasn't a problem," Carrington assured her.

The younger woman arched her brow with an incredulous slow burn that Carrington had thought only Erin Strauss could express. "This is the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm pretty sure they don't just let anyone waltz in, especially if that person wants to rifle through the office of one of their section chiefs."

The brunette simply smiled in admission. Jordan picked up the waste bin again, which now rattled and chimed with the sound of bottles (though only a few, thankfully). "Um...I don't know if...can I just walk out of here with this—would they, will there be—"

"I'll take care of it," Carrington stepped forward, pulling the trash bag out of the bin and tying the top into a neat little knot.

"Just...I don't want to leave it for the cleaning staff because...well, I mean, I guess I know that people know about Mom, but I don't want to give them something else...it's, it's not right, they don't know her, and they don't know—"

"I'll take care of it," Carrington repeated, taking a moment to place a reassuring hand on Jordan's shoulder. "There's a back exit, next to some dumpsters—I'll toss it on my break."

The younger woman gave a quick nod of approval, her throat suddenly swelling with unshed tears. She shouldn't be here, shouldn't have to be cleaning up after her mother, shouldn't be the parent to her own parent, shouldn't be the one knowing this shame and this need for secrecy, shouldn't be a part of this world at all. And in a horrible ouroboros of emotion, she both resented her mother for putting her in the position and felt guilty for feeling such resentment, for being so petty and selfish and childish and all the things that she couldn't and shouldn't be right now.

Carrington had turned away to gingerly set the bag next to the door, and when she turned back to Jordan, she was shocked to see the immediate change that had overcome the younger woman. Jordan was still standing there, in her motorcycle boots and babydoll dress, looking like a little lost girl as she kept her arms wrapped awkwardly around the waste bin, clutching it with the white-knuckle fervor of someone whose world is slowly spiraling out of control or comprehension, tight-lipped and vacant-eyed, retreated so far into her own head that she seemed completely oblivious to Carrington's presence.

And, strangely enough, that was the moment in which she looked the most like her mother—the fear and uncertainty and conflicting thoughts deep within—and Carrington felt her own pang of regret (because she wished that she'd said something months ago, said something to Erin when she knew that she was slipping again, said anything to help, to ease whatever burdens she could for a woman who'd always seemed like a mountain of fortitude).

So she did the one thing that she never did to Erin, the one thing that she'd since wished she'd done.

Carrington moved back to Jordan with a quiet cautiousness, trying not to scare her or shake her too violently from her thoughts, gently taking the tiny trash can away from the girl's arms. This brought Jordan back to the present moment, and she blinked slightly, offering a small, almost-apologetic smile. Her mother's receptionist set the waste bin back beside the desk, and then wordlessly wrapped her into a hug. There was a beat as the younger woman simply accepted the comfort, then her arms returned the embrace.

"I knew," Carrington confessed. "I should have said something sooner."

"Me, too," Jordan whispered. She pulled back, looking into Carrington's eyes so that she could understand the truth of her next statement, "It's not your fault."

"It's not yours, either."

This simple absolution renewed the tears brimming in Jordan's eyes. "I know. I don't always believe it, but I know."

"Believing and knowing aren't always the same thing," Carrington commiserated.

Jordan gave a small nod, her eyes latching onto Carrington's again ( _you have stories like that, too_ ).

Dear god, her eyes. Those were the kind of eyes that took you by surprise, seemingly ordinary and unremarkable until you were caught by them, sliced to the soul by their depths, by their startling clarity and their precision, the kind of eyes that could take in the whole world with a single glance, the kind of eyes which toppled empires and made slaves of powerful men, the kind that stopped the air in your lungs with one accidental encounter, trapping your with one little peek at the soul beneath. Just like her mother's eyes.

* * *

**June 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

Dora Carrington always tried to avoid looking at the corner of Erin's office that contained the little black leather couch, always tried not to remember the rest of her strange encounter with her boss' daughter or how things unraveled between them (it was just a kiss, just a little inconsequential second in time, it meant nothing, never had, never would), but today she felt an odd sense of nostalgia as she tidied up the office—she always came in and rearranged the folders on Erin's desk, resetting everything for the long day ahead, always had to return the waste bin to its proper place (the new cleaning staff never put it back where it was supposed to go, and that irked Carrington beyond belief).

Jordan had said that it was lovely, she didn't regret it, but she wasn't particularly interested in pursuing anything further, and Carrington had gratefully agreed. She was more than happy to move past and move on.

At least she thought so.

Over a year had passed, and Carrington hadn't felt the slightest bit of regret or shame, had simply accepted that moment as one of those strange, inexplicable things that didn't  _need_  explanation, that didn't need to be understood or pursued or really considered, and she'd been just fine with that.

And then, after such a long silence, the phone rang and Jordan Strauss had been on the other end, gravely and quietly asking for yet another favor, to which Carrington had agreed, before she even knew what the favor was. The mere sound of the younger woman's voice stirred something that Carrington hadn't even realized existed, and suddenly, she'd found herself continuously thinking back to the barely-spring afternoon, thinking more about it in the past two weeks than she'd done in the past year, thinking the two most explosive words in the human language, the two syllables that held more promise, more terror, more uncertainty, more exploration and human nature than anything else.

_What if?_

* * *

**Washington, D.C.**

Of course, John Curtis had contemplated this question many times, in various forms and from various angles, but he was actually surprised by how furious the actual result made him.

Erin Strauss wasn't playing by the rules.

He shouldn't be surprised by that. She never played by the rules, never thought that they applied to her, special golden girl of the Bureau, the shining cog in the tirelessly consuming machine, delusional collector of empty praise and emptier accolades.

But the game had been going  _so well_. Every advance and retreat had been predicted and perfectly executed, like a ballet, like the movements of a symphony, rising and falling in flawless timing, building and receding at a precise pace, all masterfully controlled by the man behind the curtain, one John Curtis.

Of course ( _ofcourseofcourseofcourse_ ) Erin Strauss had to be the one to mess up the rhythm and flow, and though her uncooperative attitude irritated John, he contented himself with the thought that in due time, she'd be properly punished for every sin she'd ever committed against him. Every. Single. One.

Still, her actions baffled him. He knew that she'd received her clues, and yet, she'd told no one about them—because if she had, they would surely have been in an oversight committee report, and perhaps the supposedly oh-so-brilliant Dr. Reid would have pieced together the significance between her clues and the dump site locations, and perhaps the team would have found the other chess pieces at the other locations (a feat which had taken a considerable amount of John's time, which made him regret that they hadn't found those pieces).

Why would she keep this secret? She had nothing to gain (and so much to lose) by concealing the Replicator's latest offering, especially when her son was on the line.

Maybe she'd figured it out. Maybe she'd realized that John wasn't going to hurt her family. Taking her son away would ruin the game—Erin wouldn't be afraid anymore, she would be sucked into her own grief, and John wanted her at her fighting weight whenever it came to the final showdown.

Maybe she understood that. Maybe she'd already begun to piece together the clues, maybe her once-celebrated ability to compile data had finally proven itself and she'd traced this feud back to its origins.

He doubted it. No, if anything, it was simply that Erin Strauss was being intentionally obtuse, petulantly refusing to play the game.

_That's OK. You'll have to play soon enough, whether you want to or not. I'll let you have some sense of control for now—it'll be that much more enjoyable when I rip it all away from you._


	48. Forests & Trees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events discussed in this first section are from 6.11 25 to Life.

_"Next to a battle lost, the greatest misery is a battle gained."_

_~Duke of Wellington._

* * *

**December 2010. Quantico, Virginia.**

She was going to kill David Rossi. That was the only solution, plain and simple. She wouldn't even try to cover her tracks or make it look like an accident. She'd wring his neck with her bare hands, and everyone who ever knew that smug bastard would simply nod and say  _justifiable homicide_.

Aaron Hotchner had taken a few days' leave, since it was the one-year anniversary of his wife's brutal murder, which meant that supervisory duties fell to David Rossi. He was the one who'd chosen Derek Morgan to oversee the Donald Sanderson parole appeal. In turn, Agent Morgan had pushed for Sanderson's release, which had now resulted in two murders.

But, oh, that was only the beginning. Sanderson had admitted to murdering Tom Wittman, and yet the whole BAU was convinced that he was innocent (Erin Strauss would never understand these people, as long as she lived). To make matters worse, while Sanderson was in custody, someone else had killed the second victim, Mary Rutka, who was supposedly connected to the original double-homicide of Sanderson's wife and daughter twenty-five years ago.

The BAU believed that someone else just so happened to be James Stanworth, an up-and-coming politician who had some very good friends in some very dangerously high places.

Now, Erin Strauss was not an unintelligent human being. She could understand how the circumstantial evidence pointed to James Stanworth, and she could understand how Morgan and Rossi were convinced that he was the man behind the murders. The problem was that it was all circumstantial. Legally, they didn't have a leg to stand on (though, when she'd pointed that out, Rossi had basically called her a coward, which only angered her further, because it was typical of him not to see the legal ramifications behind such brash accusations and actions).

She also was not an unintuitive person—as much as it irked her to play the devil's advocate and admit that the BAU was probably right, she knew that in the end, their analysis would fit this man perfectly, and she knew that they wouldn't have come to her unless they'd truly considered every other possibility. And truly, she had been convinced by their circumstantial case, but she couldn't justify arresting a man based on circumstantial. There needed to be something  _more_.

_You cannot accuse a man without a shred of physical evidence_. Those were her exact words to Morgan and Rossi. What was so hard to understand about this basic tenet of the American justice system?

She had explained this, and she had thought that they understood, thought that they would simply come back with more evidence, like the law-abiding professionals they were supposed to be.

Silly, silly, Erin. Expecting someone like David Rossi to play by the rules.

For most people, being told that there wasn't enough evidence would have been a signal to keep looking, not to engage. You didn't go after a powerful man without some equally powerful proof. You didn't defy orders on a hunch. You didn't cross the line, making a hunt for justice into some kind of personal vendetta.

And you certainly didn't burst into dinner parties like a shoot'em-up cowboys and goad a psychopath into an absolute rage on the  _slim_  chance that he might actually confess. It was reckless, it was dangerous, it was the kind of thing that put the entire Bureau at risk for lawsuits and public criticism, the kind of thing that ended with department heads rolling and agents being reassigned to Eastjesusnowhere.

This had David Rossi's flamboyant and hard-headed signature all over it.

Which was her current motive for murder, though gods know, she had a laundry list of reasons to kill that man.

As soon as she'd discovered what they'd done, she had informed Agent Rossi to meet her in her office  _immediately_ , the very second he returned to Quantico. Normally, she would have simply waited for him in his own office, but gods dammit, she needed to regain some form of control—she wanted him to be filled with dread, to feel the dark anticipation building as he rode the elevator, as he crossed the carpet into her office, wanted him to see how the power really played here, to stand before her like a man before a judge and jury, to realize and submit to the fact that she was the one in-charge, not him.

Ever since he'd returned to the Bureau three years ago, she'd put up with his dismissive attitude towards rank (he always called her  _Erin_ , not  _Chief Strauss_ ), she'd put up with his little attempts at skirting regulations (gods, he was like a child sometimes), and she'd even overlooked some of his more egregious faults, because somehow he was still a Bureau golden child, and she'd learned early on that it was easier to let things slip by than to waste time and energy fighting them.

But this was not one of those things.

This wasn't a mere skirting of the rules. This was open defiance of a direct order that  _she_  had given to him,  _to his face_.

To make matters worse, she knew that they had been back for almost an hour now, and Rossi still had not made it to her office. Not only had he defied her orders a second time, but he was making it very clear that he had absolutely no respect for her authority.

_Well, if the mountain won't come to Muhammad, then Muhammad will come to the mountain._

Unfortunately for David Rossi, the Muhammad coming to him was the one who floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee. And she was ready to fight.

She knew where he'd be—in interrogation, with Morgan and Stanworth, who was already cuffed to the table, simply waiting for his lawyer to arrive. She shot a dark look at Agent Prentiss, who was in the observation room, before giving a quick rap on the one-way glass mirror. Rossi sat up, frowning in confusion, then moved to the door.

His expression shifted from curiosity to irritation as soon as he saw her face, and she graciously let him shut the door to the interrogation room before she spoke, crossing her arms over her chest, "I gave you an order, Agent Rossi—"

"It can wait, Erin—"

"No, it can't." Her voice was so harsh that it actually made Emily Prentiss jump a little. "And really, I think you've pushed the envelope enough today. In fact, we could say that you went above and beyond envelope pushing and set the whole damn thing on fire."

"We are in the middle—"

"I have put up with enough of your fuckery today, David!" That pronouncement was enough to make Prentiss' eyes go as wide as saucers (she'd never seen Erin Strauss so livid before, and although it was kind of fascinating, it really also was scary as hell, and she was wishing that she could simply leave the room, but she would have to slip past the blonde section chief and draw attention to herself, and she really didn't want that).

Erin brushed past David, not even deigning to look at him as she commanded, "My office. Now."

He followed behind her like a thunder cloud, hovering over her shoulder as they moved quickly down the hall, "We were right about this guy, Erin—"

"That isn't the point."

"Then what the hell is the point? We just helped an innocent man—"

She whirled around suddenly, and he nearly bowled her over, caught off-guard by her abrupt stop.

"You openly defied my orders  _twice_ ," she hissed, the venom unmistakable.

"Jesus, that's what this is about? Some petty grudge match? Erin—"

"Section Chief Strauss," she corrected through clenched teeth. He gave an incredulous huff as she whirled around again, setting off at a quick pace.

He rolled his eyes as he moved after her again, "Look,  _Chief_ , you wouldn't sign off—"

"Because you didn't have enough evidence!" Her voice was reverberating through the halls, and Stanworth's attorney would arrive any second now, and it simply wouldn't do to have him overhear the BAU Section Chief admitting that they actually had no real evidence against his client (yet). That obviously was no concern of Erin Strauss, who continued with her tirade, "Holy Hell, David, why couldn't you just do like I told you, why couldn't you just—"

He had to get her out of the hallway. So he grabbed her upper arm (which of course earned him some verbal protests), opening the nearest available door, which happened to be an empty interrogation room, and hauling her inside (with perhaps slightly more force than necessary).

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" She jerked away from him. He closed the door and he saw a brief flash of fear in her eyes (and he didn't know whether to hate himself for making her fearful or to hate her for thinking him so untrustworthy).

He held up his hands, trying to show that he meant her no harm, "Look, this creep's lawyer is on his way in now, and if he hears you going on about how we didn't have sufficient proof to make an arrest, it could—"

"Because you  _don't_  have sufficient proof, and that's only half the problem!" She moved away, rubbing her forehead in aggravation. This man was giving her a migraine.

"We had to act now, while there was still—"

"No. No, no, no, you didn't. You should have done exactly what I told you to do, which was—"

"To back off? To take the coward's route? To let politics win again and let an innocent man take the fall?" Now David Rossi was finally as angry as Erin was, moving the end of the table as he held his hands open in question. "We weren't going to let this man get away with another murder, Erin."

"And neither was I—"

"You were going to let him walk!" David slammed his hands on the edge of the table.

Erin shook her head, "I was not; I was—"

"You didn't even believe us—"

"Of course I believed you! I always believe you!" She countered David's movement, slamming her own hands on metal table top, shaking David's hands, which rested on the opposite end.

There was a breathless beat as Erin Strauss' words sunk in.

She looked down, embarrassed by her own runaway emotions. "I never...I didn't doubt yours and Agent Morgan's theory. But there simply wasn't enough to build a solid case. That's my  _job_ , David. I'm supposed to protect you, to protect all of you, and sometimes that means that I have to protect you from yourselves."

"We don't need your protection," David bristled at her border-line condescension, and the implication behind her words.

"Yes, you do," Erin's voice was rising with her renewing anger. "You're just too stupid to realize it."

Of all the things that she could have said to David Rossi, that was the one to trigger a landslide of some his deepest insecurities.

"Too stupid to realize it?" After a childhood spent on the outside looking in, David had developed a need to prove that he was something more, that he wasn't every stereotype that came with his heritage and his hometown. "My daddy didn't get me into an Ivy League College, Miss Breyer, but I think I'm smart enough to—"

Erin started laughing incredulously, "Are you serious, David? That's the card you're going to play? The Daddy card? Do you really think that has any effect anymore?"

"It does, or you wouldn't have said anything," he countered.

"The guilty always speak," she surmised dryly.

"So they say," he shot back, and there was a beat as they both looked at each other, understanding the meaning behind his words ( _so they say, but we never speak of all the things we've done, all the things we're guilty of_ ) _._

"It's a wonder that you get anywhere these days," her tone was quiet, but it held a passive sense of anger just beneath the surface. "You're forever looking backwards."

"It's better than being a coward," he retorted.

She pressed her lips into a thin line at the barb, taking a deep breath as she tried to explain (for what seemed like the thousandth time, because these people were apparently incapable of comprehending basic criminal procedure, despite their famed brilliance), "I can't stand before an oversight committee and condone rouge actions based on hunches. I wanted to catch this guy just as much as you did. I wanted to take the time to gather evidence, to build our case, to make sure that he had no loophole, no single chance of getting away with this again. I never told you to abandon the case. I never called you off Stanworth's trail. I simply pushed for more facts, which you didn't have at the time. I pushed you to bring me something more. Derek Morgan is a determined man, and though I do not approve of his current actions in the least, I will admit that he is a good agent. He would have found what he needed to put Stanworth away, if you hadn't allowed him to simply run in there, guns blazing—"

"No weapons were fired—"

"You know what I mean," she cut him off, still not looking at him. With a soft shake of her head, she spoke, almost to herself, "All you had to do was wait."

She looked up again, her face haggard as she quietly asked, "Why couldn't you just trust me? Why couldn't you just wait?"

If David Rossi had a single ounce of anger left in his body, those pitiful green eyes completely destroyed it. He suddenly felt as tired as Erin Strauss looked.

She stood a little straighter, her expression hardening as she spoke again, "We have worked together for over twenty years, David. I may not have always agreed with your methods, and yes, there were even times when I disagreed with your infamous hunches, but you know that in the end, I always believed you, and I always personally supported you, even when I couldn't do so from an official standpoint. You know that. You  _know_."

He bowed his head. She was right. He did know.

With another shake of her head, she took a deep breath, "I will have to take disciplinary action, once this case is settled."

"Disciplinary action?" David's head snapped up again.

"You defied orders twice, and in doing so, you put the lives of your fellow agents at risk, not to mention the hundreds of civilians at Stanworth's party. I can't ignore that, Agent Rossi. I can't and I won't."

"Are you serious, Erin?"

"Section Chief Strauss. And yes, I am." By now, she was back in her mental armor, rising to her full height while fixing him with her most impassive stare.

"That's a pretty petty way to deal with a little hurt pride—"

"This has nothing to do with pride."

"Oh, please," he crossed his arms over his chest, his dark features filling with righteous indignation. "You've been gunning for me ever since I came back, riding my ass about every little thing, just looking for a chance to throw me under the bus—"

That barb definitely hit its mark, because he saw her shoulders jump ever-so-slightly at the bus reference (it was no secret, what she'd done to Alex Blake). He continued, "You've turned it into some personal grudge match between me and you, and you let our past relationship get in the way—"

"And what kind of past relationship would that be, exactly?" Her words were heavy, dangerous, full of threat, just daring him to speak of the unspeakable. Then she took two solid, measured steps toward him, her eyes still locked onto his, "If anything, Agent Rossi, I have let our 'past relationship', as you put it, affect my better judgment. Do you know how many times I  _haven't_  called you out for insubordination? Do you know how many times I've let you slide by? If you want to accuse me of being unprofessional, then accuse me of letting myself be trampled on—on an almost  _daily_  basis—simply because I didn't want to be accused of exactly what I'm being accused of right now. Accuse me of putting my neck on the line time and again for this team, this team that only bites the hand that feeds it, this team that holds only the greatest contempt for me, my authority, my responsibilities, and my attempts to actually help them."

Her entire body was shaking now, and her fists were clenched, nails digging into the flesh of her palms as she tried to hold back an even greater wave of pure hurt and anger. Her words had some effect on David, because he stopped, simply looking at her as if he were seeing her for the first time in years. Still, she wasn't finished—she was going to drain every ounce of poison from this wound, and if she couldn't earn his respect, then she would at least make him realize the depth of his injury to her.

She moved closer, her voice low and very, very still, "You want to paint me as the villain here, David, but if you're going to do that, then you better use the right damn brush. Make sure you lay the right accusation at my door. And let the accusation be that I was too much of a friend to a man who has been nothing but the bitterest enemy to me."

With her last pronouncement, her voice shook with a venomous hurt that betrayed all the darker, tangled feelings underneath, and David was slightly taken aback by her sudden rush of emotion. He was used to seeing Angry Erin, but there was something deeper running beneath the anger.

_The bitterest enemy._  As dramatic as her words might seem, she had a point. But she'd carefully omitted all of the reasons that he'd become her enemy—the betrayals, the capturing and breaking of his heart, the carelessness of her passing appetites, the cruel way that she refused to relinquish her hold over him (because even now, even when she was all fire and brimstone, an apocalyptic angel of fury, he still thought she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and he hated her for that, for being herself while being so far from what they used to be, so far from what she used to be for him, so far from what she used to allow him to be for her).

"Oh, Erin," he said softly, the corner of his mouth curling into a sardonic smile. "You always played the martyr so well."

She gave a smirk of her own, with a slight nod (she'd expected no less from him, because they weren't the kind who apologized, for anything, for any reason). "We all have our roles to play, David."

There was a beat, a moment in which her admission let things click back into some odd sense of balance.

"We made the right choice tonight. A ruthless psychopath is finally going to pay for his crimes, and an innocent man will finally be pardoned after twenty-five years." His voice was still gentle, still lined with compassion (though not for her, never for her).

"I never said you were wrong," her voice was equally soft, filled with fatigue and too spent from anger. The wind had left her sails, and she no longer wanted to fight, no longer needed to be in-control or in-charge. She just needed to be away from this man, who always knew exactly where to wound her, exactly which weapon to use. She turned to go, adding over her shoulder, "But you will have to answer for your actions."

"And what about you?"

His voice stopped her as she reached for the door. She turned back to face him, her face cautious, filling with a careful sense of dread. He continued, moving towards her again, "Will you have to answer for your actions, too?"

She stepped back, trying to put more distance between them, "I don't know what you're talking about, Agent Rossi. I made it very clear that—"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," he advanced again, his irritation rising. "And it has nothing to do with this case."

She took another step backwards, retreating until her back hit the wall. David hated the image that this created—he hated himself for inspiring such fear in her, hated her for being so weak, for no longer being the woman who would simply swing back, who would fight him until her dying breath (hated that this was not the first time that she'd been like this, hated that this wasn't the first time that she'd looked at him as if he were a monster). He shook his head, looking at her in strange wonder, "Why are you acting so afraid?"

"Because I am afraid," she admitted.

"Why would you ever be afraid of me?" Her confession actually caused a physical pain in his chest.

"Because I don't know you anymore." Her voice was soft, saddened with the truth of her words. Then her tone hardened again as she glared back at him, "And you obviously don't know me."

"That's not true."

With a slight huff that indicated her disagreement with his statement, she slipped past him, moving back to the door.

And before he could stop the words, they tumbled out of his mouth, "Ah, here we go, the Classic Erin Strauss Move—always the first to leave."

She stopped, the slight clench of her shoulders informing him that his arrow had hit its mark, squarely in the center of her spine. For a moment, she simply gripped the doorknob, not turning back to him.

"David, don't rehash that old fight," Erin closed her eyes, allowing herself a second to simply feel some pity for this man (though she made sure that she kept her tone unaffected and mocking, so that he couldn't know how she truly felt, how she actually ached for him, for all the things he did not and could not ever know).

"I wouldn't have to rehash it, if for  _just once_ , you would stay long enough to simply talk about it," he informed her, and he hated himself for sounding so whiny and clawing and needy.

She turned to give him a dark look over her shoulder, "I'm not your mother and I'm not your therapist."

Then she moved back to him, her voice dipping lower as her eyes stayed locked onto his, "And I'm certainly not your goddamn punching bag."

There she was, his sparring partner of old, defiant and daring him to take a swing. But he didn't want to spar. He wanted to draw blood, to have something real, to feel a moment of actual reaction from this stone-faced woman. An unreadable look passed through his eyes, and then he quietly agreed, "You're right, Erin. You're none of those things. You aren't anything to me at all."

"Liar," the word slipped from her tongue before she even knew it, a knee-jerk reaction to his childish bullying ways, and suddenly she blushed with the realization that there had been too much emotion behind her words, too much please-don't-let-it-be-true and please-don't-stop-loving-me.

He read her reaction like the bold print of a front-page headline, a smug smirk on his dark features as he realized that on some level, Erin Strauss still wanted to matter to him, still wanted to mean something (which meant that he still mattered to her, that he still meant something).

"Did that upset you, kitten?" Of course, he never was one to simply notice something, not when he could point it out and make her even more uncomfortable.

"Of course not," she lied, and they both knew that she was lying. The sudden use of her former nickname brought up another strange surge of conflicting emotions, and all she wanted was to be away from him as quickly as possible.

"Liar," he returned easily.

"We're both liars," she informed him flatly.

"That's one thing we have in common." He didn't say what the other thing was.

"I don't want to have this discussion, not right now—"

"Aw, c'mon, Erin," he was moving closer again, and every nerve ending in her skin was sending off little alarms. His tone was laced with sarcasm as he added in a stage whisper, "It'll be our little secret. You already have so many dirty little secrets, what's one more gonna hurt?"

Oh, he always knew just what punches to land, even when he didn't know just how powerful they were.  _So many dirty little secrets_. Of course, he was referring to the nights in hotel rooms, the angry exchange at the Christmas ball six years ago, the little things that meant nothing compared to the secret that she'd literally carried inside of her body for nine months, the secret that now walked about the earth as a sixteen-year-old boy, the secret that she would die to protect.

David realized too late (he was always too late when it came to Erin Strauss) that he'd pushed too hard. He meant to goad Erin, to finally prick her enough so that she would finally say something about all the things that had been bouncing between them for years and years, but he'd pushed her to the point of breaking, and now she was shutting down, shutting him out. She simply shook her head, reaching for the doorknob again, giving him one last pitying look as she opened the door, "Poor David. You always were the type who couldn't see the forest for the trees."

He leaned forward, placing his hand on the doorframe (not blocking her path, not hemming her in or making her feel trapped, but still getting as close to her as he could, as close as he dared), his tone low and filled with something between a threat and an invitation, "Then why don't you enlighten me, Erin?"

He was so close that his presence actually overwhelmed her. She stopped for a full beat, her mouth opened and closed without a sound, and her eyes locked onto his mouth. She could see the vein in his neck still throbbing from their shouting match and smell his cologne and feel the heat radiating from his body, and even now, even when she was so full of anger and hurt and pity, she still found every thought flying from her mind and her heart skipping a beat simply because he was physically closer to her than he had been in almost a decade.

Her mind flashed the one secret that would forever separate them:  _You know nothing about what we really used to be, you know nothing about how I bore you a son, how I love him for being so much like you, how I loved you (perhaps still do) for giving him to me, how you will always hold this horrible grip on my heart, making me jump and pine for you, for simply a smile, a thank you, a kind word, a small semblance of the old affection that was once between us, but no, no, no, you'll never know because I can't ever risk telling you…._

This was David's last volley, his last chance to try to get a response from Erin Strauss, his last attempt to let her feel better by giving some snarky retort or final threat before walking away (because yes, he'd let her have the last word on this subject, in this moment, if it would take the strange, sad, fearful look from her eyes, if it would make her become his hard and shining fighter again).

However (as usual), Erin didn't respond as planned. She simply turned those doleful eyes to his as she quietly confessed, "I'm afraid there are too many trees in our forest now, David. It's too big and too dark for you to ever really see it all."

With another heavy sigh, she slipped out into the hallway again, back to the interrogation room where Donald Sanderson was being held. Today had been absolute and utter hell in so many ways, the least she could do was find some sense in hope in watching a truly innocent man finally walk into freedom after a quarter of a century of doubt, ridicule, and injustice.

If her BAU agents had simply waited long enough to gather proper evidence, she wouldn't have to worry about another man, a guilty man, a dangerous man, walking free due to a legal technicality. But she wouldn't think about that now. Right now, she needed distance.

David Rossi watched Erin's retreating form, blonde curls bouncing as she pushed herself into a power-walk that always bespoke a sense of assurance and fortitude which he knew that she didn't feel right now.

He used to know exactly how to push her buttons, how to goad her into a temper, how to push her to the edge of infuriated insanity. She used to react to his words and manipulations, billowing into a pillar of fury, fighting and pushing back, pushing his own buttons, forcing him to a place of red-hot anger, too. Now, every time he tried to do that, she simply shied away, becoming tearful and fearful instead of angry and brilliant. And she didn't push back any more (she never pushed back, not when it really came down to it—sure, she'd stand her ground for a little while, but it wasn't the same as actually striking back).

Maybe she was right. Maybe they no longer knew each other. That simple thought was enough to stop his heart. And maybe she was right about the rest, too—they were too far gone, too far along on this dark path to ever turn back to the way things were.

Had they finally reached the point of no return?

* * *

**June 2013. Rural Virginia.**

"I must say, I love how you just gloss over your more insubordinate actions," Erin's voice was dry, yet somehow still warm with amusement.

David looked over at her, "Whaddya mean?"

The conversation was interrupted by the pounding of Mudgie's mammoth feet on the cedar deck as the lab brought back the toy that his master had been tossing into the back yard in a game of fetch. David and the dog played tug-of-war for a few seconds with the toy, and eventually, Mudgie gave up. Then David stood and threw the toy as far into the yard as he could, and the dog bolted again.

From her seat in the lounge chair, Erin watched this exchange with a smile. David glanced back over at her, with her reading glasses perched on her nose and his laptop balanced on her knees as she read the latest chapters on his next book, and he waited for her to resume the subject.

"The Sanderson case," she clarified.

"Ah, yes."

"There seems to be things….missing."

"I figured it was for the best."

"Probably so," she admitted, leaning over to grab her lemonade, which was resting on the deck, next to her chair. This action gave David a perfect shot of her cleavage, and he voiced his appreciation for the view. She simply gave him a warning look, which of course only made him grin even more.

He moved, sitting on the end of her lounge chair, taking her bare feet in his lap as his fingers began massaging the pressure points on the balls of her feet (because although he did love what her heels did for her legs, he hated how they hurt her toes).

"Just remember, bella, all that happened years ago. And tonight, I made you dinner and massaged your feet."

She chuckled at the reminder, "Well-played, Mr. Rossi."

He grinned, too, but then his face became serious, "The part that I didn't write about…the discussion we had in the interrogation room…you were talking about Christopher then, weren't you?"

She stopped, slipping her glasses from her face as she quietly admitted, "Yes, yes I was."

"So…so now I see the whole forest?"

She was surprised that he remembered every word from a conversation that took place almost three years ago, and yet she was touched that he'd treasured every moment with her, even the darker ones, had kept them in the pristine halls of his memory.

"Yes," she smiled softly.

"Good," he smiled, too. Then he leaned forward, taking the laptop from her, closing it and setting aside.

"I was reading that—"

"You can read later." He assured her, leaning forward for a kiss, and she gladly met him halfway, her hands tenderly cupping his face. Then he was slipping her feet out of his lap, somehow moving between her legs as she leaned back on the chaise, his mouth rejoining hers as he hovered over her.

"You know what I like the most about all the parts that you don't put in your books?" Her voice was husky, filling with warmth and something just a shade darker.

"What, bella?" He took a moment to taste her neck.

"The reason that you never shared those moments," she whispered, kissing the curve of his jaw.

He thought back to that morning spent by her pool, when he'd confessed to coveting every moment, every second spent with her, and he felt the first stirrings of desire in his blood at the meaning behind her admission.

"You like that I covet you?" He asked, his own voice dipping into a purr as he bestowed little kisses down her neck, across the tops of her breasts, punctuating each question with a kiss, a taste of her flesh. "That I am jealous of every moment spent with you? Every glance? Every touch? Every almost-touch?"

This inquiry was interrupted by Mudgie bounding onto the deck again, still yipping excitedly for his master to play some more. Erin laughed and pushed him away again, "For goodness sake's, play with that poor baby. I think he sees you less than I do these days."

He chuckled in agreement, taking a moment to ruffle Mudgie's ears—the dog dropped his toy and began licking his master's face in response, and David merely laughed (and Erin's heart lifted a little at his laugh, so easy and free and deep, and the way it made his face seem ten years younger, more carefree and less burdened by reality). He scooped the chew toy off the deck again, teasing Mudgie with it a few times before actually throwing it again.

Then he turned back to his lover, "Now where were we?"

"I believe you were coveting me," she supplied, and he hummed in agreement.

"Yes, I believe I was," his hand slipped over the curve of her hip, up her ribcage and under her shoulder blade, pulling her closer as he leaned in for another kiss.

She made a face, pushing him away lightly, "You smell like dog breath."

Of course, her distaste did not deter him—in fact, it only incited him further, and he tried to kiss her, laughing as she tried to wriggle out of his grasp, and she cursed him in protest when he finally did kiss her, groaning in dismay as he buried his face in the curve of her neck

"Now you smell like dog breath, too," he informed her gleefully, and she reached up to spat him on the chest.

"David Rossi, you are horrible. A horrible, horrible ass."

"All very true, mia cara. But I'm a horrible ass who loves you."

"You have a funny way of showing it," she retorted, grimacing as she tried to wipe away the remnants of dog slobber that had transferred from David's face to her skin.

"How about I take you upstairs and give you a lovely bath to prove just how much I love you?" He asked, leaning forward again. His face was mockingly sober as he vowed, "I promise, I'll make sure to wash away every bit, from head to toe."

"Well, I suppose that's the least you can do," she gave a shrug of feigned nonchalance, as if she had no idea what a bath with David Rossi would entail.

"And I'll massage away every ounce of stress caused by being in love with a horrible, horrible ass."

"Will you, now?" Her tone suddenly filled with amusement.

"Yes. I happen to have a personal masseuse who has taught me several tricks of the trade."

She gave a low hum at the reference. Then she sat up, her eyes dancing in the waning sunset. "Well, with an offer like that, how could I refuse?"

He grinned, rising to his feet and offering his hand to help her up as well. She placed her reading glasses atop her head as she grabbed their glasses of lemonade, and he scooped up the laptop and they both padded on bare feet across the deck, to the large double-doors of the huge open den.

"By the way," her mouth was curling into a smirk again as he opened the door and she breezed past. "Who ever said that I was actually in love with this horrible, horrible ass?"

Oh, that woman. She never let him have a single easy victory, not even for a minute. And truly, it only made him love her more.

* * *

_ "When it comes to love, compassion, and other feelings of the heart, I am rich." _

_ ~Muhammad Ali. _


	49. Profane

_ "These hands will be cut and burned and blackened with ash as we sift through what we set fire to. We are the remains when the excuses have been burned down and the colors of life will hide under our fingernails. We are these hands, tough but gentle and strong but soft. We, like they, were made for building and holding, painting and writing and drawing inkless art on the canvas of bare skin. Listen to the words my hands say as they trace the lines of yours, hear the whispers as they cartwheel down your back. These hands tell stories and I'll spend my life wondering what your hands tell my hands when your fingers find my fingers and wrap tightly around." _

_ ~Tyler Knott Gregson. _

* * *

**July 1989. Washington, D.C.**

David couldn't help but notice that Erin was breathing weirdly—she was doing this thing where she'd take a shallow, unsteady breath, then simply hold her breath for a few seconds. He glanced over and noticed that she was paler than usual, too.

They were seated at a large oak conference table, surrounded by other agents in the middle of a status briefing on their newest Joint Task Force assignment, so he leaned over, his voice dipping low enough to be heard only by her, "Strauss, y'okay?"

"What?" She looked over at him, with the slightly dazed expression of one awakened from a dream. Then she frowned, closing her eyes, "Oh, um, yeah. I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure."

"'Cause you don't look fine."

"I'm fine, Rossi," her voice was laced with irritation. "I'm fine, I just...I'm pregnant."

"What?"

Suddenly, their little tête-à-tête was interrupted by Jack Bronson's booming voice, "Strauss, Rossi, something you two wanna share with the rest of the class?"

Strauss turned back to the JTF SAC—but she turned too quickly and it made the room spin, so she closed her eyes and did that weird holding-her-breath thing again.

Rossi reached over, grabbing her hand under the table and stilling her, "Nope, Bronson, we're still here."

"Good," Bronson gave a curt nod, returning to the briefing memo.

Strauss gave his hand a grateful squeeze. A full minute passed before she actually let go of his hand, and he oddly missed the clammy warmth of her palm.

After the briefing, the younger blonde agent quickly disappeared. However, Rossi had a pretty good guess as to her whereabouts, and he casually leaned against the wall in the long, depressingly greyish-yellow hallway, keeping an eye on the entrance to the women's restroom.

She appeared, wiping red-rimmed eyes, taking a moment to simply stare at him when she realized that he'd been waiting on her.

"You look like hell," he informed her.

"The joys of motherhood," she replied drolly. He offered her a peppermint, but she shook her head, "Too sweet. I have some regular mints in my desk. And some lemon drops. Those seem to be the only things that work."

He almost made a quip about lemon drops and why her face always looked so sour, but for once, David Rossi chose not to antagonize Erin Strauss, because she obviously was not up to their usual sparring.

"How far along?" He asked casually as they started walking back to the bullpen.

"Just a few weeks," she admitted. After a beat, she added, "Bronson wants to send me up to Boston, to head off the JFT analysts on the Hantown case. It's gonna be a helluva trip, I can tell."

He gave a small hum of amusement at her dry pronouncement.

"Thankfully this whole morning sickness thing is only supposed to last for a few more weeks," she sighed. "Although, it's not just in the mornings—I'm sick all the time."

"I thought you looked like you'd lost some weight," David admitted.

Erin suddenly stopped, a wryly smug smile slipping across her lips, "David Rossi, you've been looking at my ass again, haven't you?"

He couldn't help it. He had to laugh, deeply and fully, at her crack-whip humor.

"Jesus, Strauss, you are the most narcissistic woman I've ever met," he informed her.

"I'm assuming that was meant as a compliment."

"Absolutely."

She gave a curt nod of approval as they stopped at her desk—she rummaged through a drawer until she found her mints, popping one in her mouth as she turned back to him, "I've got a good half-hour before I start turning green around the gills again, so whaddya need?"

"What?"

She motioned back towards the restrooms, "Well, you were lurking in the hallway, waiting for me. I assume it's because you needed something, some data from the new JTF assignment."

"No, I didn't need anything," he admitted, slightly surprised that she couldn't assume that he was simply checking on her. "I just...I just wanted to make sure that you were alright."

"Really?" She seemed incredulous, and he felt a wave of irritation at her disbelief.

"Really."

She took a moment to scrutinize him, down the full length of her nose (in the way that always amazed Rossi, because it made her seem ten feet tall, when really she was much shorter than he was). Then she simply smiled, giving a small nod, "OK, then."

She turned back to her desk, shuffling through her papers as she casually changed the subject, "When are you heading back to Quantico?"

He glanced at his watch, "In about fifteen minutes. I need to double-check a few things with Bronson before I leave, then say hello to Abby—I mean, Agent Van Hals."

Strauss simply smiled at the slip-up, and she wondered for the hundredth time if Abigail Van Hals had been another conquest of the infamous David Rossi (wondered if Abigail was on the list with her, wondered how many of her fellow female agents shared this strange unknown bond, this question that she could never ask them, could never ask David, because she wasn't even supposed to remember that it had happened).

Her hands were still moving across the tiny desk, shuffling and re-organizing papers and notepads and pencils—David couldn't help but notice that her post-it notes were ordered along the edge of her desk (according to size, then color), and he knew that something had recently been stressing her.

"Don't you dare tell Van Hals, but I still miss Golden," Strauss admitted quietly. Her mentor and former SAC had been gone for five months now, and she missed his quiet, calming ways, his advice and his jokes, his way of explaining things, his way of following data, not hunches, his simple presence and even his smile.

And not for the first time, David Rossi wondered if there was more between Kitten and Ruthie than met the eye (wondered if she'd given him the same speech that she'd given David, about let's-pretend-this-never-happened, wondered if there was more behind the soft look that Ruthie had given Erin during his retirement party, wondered if he wasn't the only colleague who'd fallen into this woman's arms, though he was much too prideful to ever ask, to ever really want to know).

"Your secret's safe with me," he assured her, and they both felt that they weren't just talking about her loyalty to her former SAC.

She blushed (thinking that he was somehow referring to other secrets that he'd kept, secrets of things they'd done in hotel rooms), and he interpreted that as an admission of guilt (thinking that it was a confession of her feelings, of her past actions with Golden, of something deeper than mere admiration for the man).

Another agent, Fielding, entered with several containers of Chinese food, "Hey, Strauss, I got an extra thing of the happy family—ya want it?"

The smell of food made Erin go pale again, and her hand automatically went to her throat, "No, Fielding, I'm good, I-I-I think I need to...excuse me."

She bolted down the hall again, and David wasn't sure whether he should laugh or pity her.

"What's her problem?" Fielding turned back to Rossi, slightly confused. "She OK?"

So Erin hadn't informed her coworkers yet.  _Interesting_. David wondered if that meant that she trusted him, that she had some kind of confidence with him that she didn't have with the others, or simply that her news had slipped out on accident during the briefing.

"She's fine," Rossi assured the other agent. "Just not feeling too great today."

With a slight shake of his head, he headed for Bronson's office, though his mind remained hovering over the desk of one certain blonde hurricane, who currently had lost some of her force due to her maternal illness.

He shouldn't care about Erin Strauss, or her pregnancy, or why she had resorted to her old habit of arranging and re-ordering items (a nervous tic that he'd learned on their first case together, over a year ago, something he probably shouldn't remember but could never forget). He shouldn't care. He shouldn't.

That didn't stop the single thought that seared across his brain like a branding iron:  _Erin Strauss is pregnant_.

As jealous and childish and petty as it sounded, it somehow seemed to tarnish whatever had been between them—it was one thing to sleep with a man, it was another thing to marry him, and it was an entirely different beast to carry his child. And the fact that she'd committed to such a thing so shortly after their last transgression (it had only been six months since Philadelphia) was disconcerting to David.

She didn't owe him anything. He knew that, and truly, he didn't expect anything from her, either. And yet, he couldn't deny that he still felt an odd pin-prick at this news, some inexplicable reaction (because really, it wasn't any of his business, he had no claim on this woman, just as she had no claim on him).

Denial is a powerful tool of the human psyche, perhaps one of its most powerful weapons against the weight of reality. David fully engaged this mechanism, silently telling himself that his only concern was for Strauss' health and safety, because she was his colleague and a good agent, because he would feel this way if any of his coworkers were ill.

And his denial was fully in-place by the time he entered Bronson's office and asked to be assigned to the JTF effort in Boston, the same one that Strauss was being sent to consult on. Obviously, he wanted to go because he wanted to be a part of the action, and because they did have a need for his skill set. It had nothing to do with the fact that Erin Strauss might need someone to hold her hand again.

And ten days later, when he was in Boston, preparing for his first day on the case, he stopped at a bodega and bought a pack of lemon drops. Obviously, he did this because he was already there buying coffee, and he  _liked_  lemon candies, always had. It was a sheer whim. It had nothing to do with the fact that they were the only thing that kept Erin Strauss from getting sick.

Obviously.

* * *

**November 1997. Vienna, Virginia.**

Erin stared at the dust-jacket for several minutes before she realized that her hands were actually trembling. With a quick shake of her head, she reached up and placed the book on the top shelf of her bedroom closet.

She told herself that she was putting the book there because she had three young, curious children who didn't need to read such things.

She knew that was a lie.

The book's spine was facing her, the red metallic letters spelling out  _David Rossi_ seemed to glitter back at her with a dark foreboding, more frightful that the book's title,  _Deviance: The Secret Desires of Sadistic Serial Killers_.

 _Secret Desires_. Of course, David went for the dramatic.

She'd already read a few chapters, and she had to admit, he actually had a flair for writing. His literary style matched his verbal patterns, and she could almost hear him speaking the words aloud, as if he were reading the book to her.

She suddenly felt a jolt, somewhere between her lungs and her pelvis, an odd sense of nostalgia and longing, just for the sound of his voice, always smooth and eternally amused.

It had been over four years since she'd heard his voice. She missed that. She missed the light teasing in his tone, the way the corners of his eyes would crinkle long before his mouth actually smiled, the way they danced with a joke, the relaxed and easy movements of his body when he leaned back in his chair, taking a break from whatever case they were working on to follow random rabbit trails of conversation, the camaraderie of hours and days and weeks spent side by side, sitting at conference tables overflowing with case files or walking through the streets of any city or standing in elevators, simply waiting.

When she'd first picked up the book in the book store, she'd studied the black and white photo on the back of the dust jacket, trying to gauge how much of the old Dave was still there. And oh, how she'd found herself blushing when she bought the book, as if she was taking home some perversely graphic romance novel—no one could ever know the true connection she had to the author, to the cases of which he wrote, but she knew, and that was enough to make her on-edge.

She'd brought it home last night, had left it on the bedside table, that monochromatic face smiling up at her as Paul had leaned over, kissing her, slipping his hands over her in familiar overtures of his usual foreplay. For a split second, she'd felt that she couldn't—not with David watching. Then, of course, she'd reminded herself that it was just a picture on the back of a book, that she was being stupid, that she certainly wouldn't tell her husband that she didn't want to have sex because a photograph was looking at them. It was neurotic, it was ridiculous...and yet...and yet it felt so  _profane_ , the thought of making love to her husband while the token of her former lover (they hadn't been lovers, had they, but what else could she call him?) rested less than three feet away, casually taking in the scene.

When she'd slipped her tank top off, she'd placed it over David's face. The odd conflict rising in her chest had subsided, and she'd pushed the rest away.

And now, today, she was exiling David's face to the closet. No more guilty feelings for Erin Strauss.

Anna was crying again, interrupting her mother's thoughts. With one last heavy sigh and an irritated ruffle of her hand through her hair (teething babies could drive anyone to absolute insanity), Erin shut the closet door and returned to reality.

* * *

**June 2013. Rural Virginia.**

"'Then spoke the thunder

DA

 _Datta_ : what have we given?

My friend, blood shaking my heart

The awful daring of a moment's surrender

Which an age of prudence can never retract

By this, and this only, we have existed

Which is not to be found in our obituaries

Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider..."

The smooth cadence of Erin's voice was lulling David into a golden, dreamy state as he rested his head in her lap, grinning contently as he silently decided that this was how books should always be read—she wasn't wearing anything except her reading glasses, holding the book in one hand above his head, while her other hand played with his hair. They'd had a deliciously hot (in more ways than one) bath, he'd massaged away the knots in her stressed muscles, she'd shown her gratitude in a physically rewarding way, and afterwards, they were both too awake to simply go to sleep, so she'd started reading the book she'd brought with her (he loved that, loved that she always had a book, in her purse or her car or on her bedside table), and he'd convinced her to read aloud. It was endearingly domestic and touchingly intimate, and he wanted to stay in this warm little bubble of a moment for as long as possible.

He could feel the warmth of her thighs radiating against his cheek, could smell the simple scent of soap on both of their bodies, and he turned his head slightly, sampling her soft skin with his lips. She didn't miss a beat in her reading, though her fingers in his hair became slightly more insistent, massaging his scalp, encouraging him to continue.

"These fragments I have shored up against my ruins

Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.

Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

Shanith, Shantih, Shantih."

He gave a small hum of approval, once he realized that she'd finished that particular poem. "I think that's enough for tonight, bella."

"I hope you're only referring to the reading."

He grinned, lightly nipping the top of her thigh, "Of course."

Now it was her turn to hum in approval, setting her book and her glasses on the bedside table before turning her attention to her lover. She leaned forward, her hands trailing down his bare back, tumbling and seeking like the tide against the shore, simply taking in as much as she could of this man who was a bottomless well to her, this man who completed her and satisfied her yet always left her craving more.

"I love this," she admitted.

"I know you do," he informed her with a teasing warmth.

"No, not sex—I mean, I love that, too, but that wasn't what I was talking about."

He stopped for a moment, raising his head to look into her eyes, his face filled with curiosity.

"I like the domesticity," she clarified, tracing the outline of his face adoringly. "I don't think I ever was much of a domestic woman, but this, here, with you, I like it."

She leaned towards the night stand again, grabbing her phone, "Which reminds me. Peter sent this to me, earlier today. I meant to send it to you, but I was in a meeting and I forgot."

He sat up, reclining against the headboard, his shoulder pressed against her own as he watched her scroll through her texts. She found the one she was looking for—one from Peter, which contained a photo from Christopher's birthday dinner. Peter had convinced everyone to move to one side of the table, and had gotten their waiter to take a photo.

"Happy family," she decreed warmly, handing him the phone so that he could inspect the picture more closely.

He nodded in agreement, smiling at the memory of how right and wonderful it felt, celebrating their son's birthday, like one family, like there were no secrets, no complications. Jordan, Chris, and Peter were seated, with David and Erin standing behind the birthday boy, Erin's other arm pulling Anna closer to her. Everyone's face was bright and beaming, cheeks red from too much laughter.

"I'm gonna have to print this one out and frame it for the wall in the study," he decided. She gave a small hum—she knew what he was talking about, she'd seen the huge open wall in his study, covered in photos from his life, photos of colleagues and family members and mentors and everyone who held a place in his heart. She also knew that there already was a photo of them in that collection, the photo from Ruthie's retirement party, and she loved the idea of this picture joining that storyline—because in this photo, they were happier, they were solider, they were  _more_.

"It's definitely frame-worthy," she agreed, leaning over to kiss the shell of his ear. She watched him study the photo, her heart swelling with more adoration for this man, this man who'd forgiven her of so many things, this man whom she'd forgiven of just as many things.

She liked the idea of having their photos on his wall (it hearkened back to the sense of belonging, of stake and ownership and rightness), liked the idea of being the bright spot among the sober settings of his study (though she loved his study, loved the smell of leather and cigar smoke and firewood, the sense and weight of  _David_  that seemed to fill the room), liked the idea of David actually wanting to place their makeshift family portrait on his wall, liked knowing that he was proud of what they had done, of what they were building even now.

He handed her the phone again, and she forwarded the picture to his cell (she had to do these things while she was thinking about them, because she'd surely forget if she waited until morning). Then she set her phone back on the night stand and turned back to her love with a warm smile, her hand gently tracing the line down the middle of his chest created by the split of his ribcage.

His hand took hers, gently turning it over as he brought it to his lips, planting a warm kiss on her palm. Then he pulled it back, taking the time to catalogue its features, his fingers lightly tracing the outline of her hand, the shadows created by the dim lamplight, the lines in her palm that supposedly foretold her destiny. She shifted closer, her leg easily intertwining with his as she kissed his warm shoulder, her green eyes still fixed on their hands, which were now caressing and reshaping around one another, just as they had done a few months ago, in her office, the day that he'd first spoken the word  _love_ , the day that he'd confessed that he could never give up on her, not even when he wanted to.

And just as she had done the first time that she'd witnessed such a sight, Erin Strauss admitted that she was truly in love with this man. Madly, deeply, helplessly, whole-heartedly in love. And she had absolutely no plans to ever change that.

* * *

_ "My hands are two travelers, they've crossed oceans and lands. But they are too small on the continent of your skin…wandering, wandering, I could spend my life traveling the length of your body each night." _

_ ~Jewel, 'Jupiter'. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem read by Erin in the final section is T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland—and the strange spelling in the last few lines are not typos, though they appear to be.


	50. Flash Point

_"The past is never dead. It's not even past."_

_~William Faulkner._

* * *

**November 1988. New York City, New York.**

David Rossi checked his watch again and swore under his breath. He hated being late, especially on the first day of a new assignment. With one last deep breath, he entered the conference room, where the status conference was already underway.

SAC Samuel Sorenson turned to Rossi with a look of mild amusement, his voice dry as he commented, "Nice of you to join us, Agent Rossi."

"Apologies. Traffic's a bitch." David quickly took the nearest available seat, motioning for Sorenson to continue. As the older man carried on with his briefing, David took a moment to look around the room at his fellow task force members—they had all been brought in to head the investigation against Jarrod Roche, a medium-sized fish in the East Coast pond of organized crime who was apparently starting a new foray into funding terrorist activities. Across the table were three plainclothes detectives, a police chief, another dark-haired man who was obviously an agent, and few other mid-level political types (aka the ones who were merely figureheads, who would take credit for this action if it were a success). At the end of the table sat a blond man with broad shoulders and a weary expression, whom David knew was Dave Wallander from the D.C. office. Then there was a rather nondescript looking man, quiet with light brown hair, completely unassuming in a way that marked him as an analyst. Next to David sat another familiar blonde—Erin Strauss, daughter of the formidable Jameson E. Breyer, who was now reading over the briefing packet as if it were the most interesting thing she'd ever seen. He wondered what the hell she was doing here—the last time he'd seen her, she was working for Goodwin in White Collar.

This time, Erin Strauss had recognized David Rossi's handsome face whenever he entered the room (she shouldn't think that, shouldn't think he was handsome, after all, she was a married woman, she wasn't supposed to notice men the way she noticed him). When he sat down next to her, she felt an odd sensation tingling against her skin, as if she could feel the heat radiating from his body, although there were still almost two feet of open space between them. She didn't know why he made her feel so uneasy, but her mind was already quietly whispering,  _He's not safe, beware of this man_.

Sorenson was motioning toward Dave Wallander, grabbing Erin's attention again,"What have you got for us, Wallander?"

"Right," Dave shifted in his seat, rearranging his papers. "D.C. Organized Crime has been following Roche for a while, but I think Strauss is better suited to pull this part of the briefing—she's been working on Roche's file for years now."

Suddenly, all eyes zeroed in on her, the only woman in the room, the only person under the age of thirty, and Erin Strauss felt her stomach drop. How had she ever gotten here?

She gave a curt nod, looking down at her own notes on Roche, which she'd brought with her from Philly, to D.C., now to New York. Her hands were shaking and her mouth suddenly felt dry, so she took a second to steady herself, clearing her throat as she tried to sound as professional and unaffected as possible.

"Jarrod Roche first came under Bureau scrutiny in '82—Philadelphia's White Collar Division first started investigating him for some of his business practices, then we expanded the investigation once we realized that Roche was bribing elected officials, but he successfully evaded public corruption charges three years ago. Since then, we've been able to financially link him to several organized crime rings in New York City, where he began meeting with a German national six months ago. We believe that his German partner is directly linked to several Libyan organizations, one of which may be tied to the bombing at La Belle Discotheque in Berlin two years ago."

David Rossi fought back a frown. She was sitting so close to him that he could feel her leg shaking as she gave her briefing, though she kept her arms steeled so that her hands wouldn't tremble. She'd forced her voice into a lower register (trying to sound older, more authoritative, more masculine) and for some reason, that irritated him. He didn't understand why she simply couldn't be herself, why she felt the need to hide behind nerves and bravado, as if she hadn't earned her place at this table like the rest of them.

"That's all we have so far," she admitted with an almost-sheepish smile, as if she was embarrassed by the fact that she still had more information than anyone else at the table. God, she must be one of those overachieving need-to-please golden children that the Bureau was so fond of scooping up. David suddenly decided that she wasn't the complex raging masochist that he'd believed her to be two years ago, when he'd met her for the second time in Ralph Richardson's office. She was definitely just an annoying sycophant—the thought made him stop, because he was surprised at how viciously he'd labeled her, and he wasn't sure why he had suddenly decided that he didn't like her.

Sorenson nodded in approval, "Good. So this is where we start, lady and gents. Roche is here in the city, as is his German friend. The frequency of their meetings has increased, and we need to know why and what they're about. Strauss and Wallander, you'll continue bringing in our leads from Organized Crime, and Martin, you bring in Philly's White Collar files as well."

The man who was obviously an analyst nodded at this (apparently he was Martin, David guessed). Then Sorenson motioned to the dark-haired agent across the table, "Talladeris will specifically be focusing on Roche's activities in New York City, and Rossi, I'll need you to start building a profile—if our guy's a terrorist, then we need to know exactly how he and his friends are going to react if we try to take them. And we need to know what they'll do, before they actually do something. We will continue to keep the NYPD in the loop, so that the officers will be aware of any possible threats."

The task force was dismissed and the agents went into another smaller conference room, where there were boxes stacked on the table and a dry-erase board waiting patiently in the corner, ready for what would likely be a long and trying pursuit of a budding world-class criminal.

"Wow. They got here way faster than I expected," Wallander commented, opening a box to pull out a few pages of what were obviously financial records. He spoke over his shoulder, not even bothering to look up as he instructed, "Strauss, start graphing out a timeline on the board."

The younger woman moved to the other side of the room, uncapping a marker and jotting down a few items before drawing the long horizontal line across the board. She worked quickly and quietly, and David was impressed that apparently she'd memorized most of Jarrod Roche's history, because she didn't even need Wallander's prompting as she began writing down dates and occurrences.

"What about personal details?" Rossi asked, and Strauss stopped scribbling to turn back to him.

"What kind?" She asked.

"Whatever you've got."

She thought for a moment, biting her bottom lip. Then she answered, "I think we've got a folder with his basic information—date of birth, known aliases and all known current and former addresses—"

"We're gonna need more than that."

"Oh," she suddenly remembered something. "Philadelphia's White Collar Division is sending over all of the intel they've gathered on Roche over the years. Financial records, schedules—"

"Those aren't personal details, Agent Strauss," Rossi pointed out, a little harsher than necessary.

She blinked, obviously thrown off by his tone. "Well, I understand that, Agent Rossi. However, you can still use them to find—"

"I asked for personal details," he tried to remain calm (and silently wondered why the hell he was getting upset, why she was making him so upset). "I didn't ask for bank statements or car titles or deeds or whatever else the accountants with badges dragged up. So you could have saved us some time by simply saying, 'No, we don't have any personal details.'"

Dear gods, he sounded just like her father right now, Erin thought, and his attitude inspired the same reaction that she always had to her father's displeasure—the little flip of fear in her stomach that told her to duck her head and keep moving, avoiding the fight at all costs. So she did just that, turning back to the board and continuing with her timeline. Her refusal to engage actually irritated Rossi, because he knew that she had more bite, more fire (he'd seen it, however briefly, that first time they met, in the bar at Christmas), and he hated to think that maybe that bastard Goodwin had crushed it out of her. Of course, Rossi simply told himself that it irritated him because he despised passive people.

The more Erin Strauss tried to push away whatever strange emotions were stirred up by that brief little (not even really a) clash, the more powerful they became. And her most prevalent emotion was building into anger—after years of being Goodwin's punching bag, she had finally gotten into a healthier environment under Rutherford Golden's care, and she was starting to realize that she had true worth, and that she really didn't have to take anyone's shit. So why had she let this arrogant Italian bastard push her around like a schoolyard bully?

Dave Wallander gave Rossi a slightly surprised look (Rossi normally was the charmer when it came to women, so this was a bit of a departure from his usual ways). The dark-haired man gave a shrug, and Wallander just shook his head, giving him one last pointed look ( _play nice, Rossi_ ).

In an effort to dispel the tension in the room, Wallander changed the subject, "Give us a hand with these boxes, will ya?"

Rossi helped him unpack the files and binders, setting them on the sprawling conference room table which suddenly seemed much smaller as more and more stacks of papers overtook its surface. A comfortable silence reigned as the three agents focused on their respective tasks.

After a few minutes, the unassuming man from the briefing entered with yet another box. By that time, Rossi and Wallander, aka Dave and Other Dave, were cataloguing the stacks of paper from each box.

Glancing over his shoulder, Rossi acknowledged the newcomer, "Analyst Martin, right?"

"Agent." The man corrected. "But yes, Martin."

"Oh. I'm sorry. The way Sorenson spoke to you, I just assumed—"

"So much for being the master profiler." Erin couldn't stop the words from leaving her mouth, though she didn't dare turn around to see Rossi's reaction.

David heard the barb, though it had been a low, passive-aggressive aside, and he fixed his dark eyes on the square set of the blonde's shoulders, "What did you say?"

"You heard me." Internally, Erin's knees were shaking, but she kept her voice cool and strong (and silently congratulated herself for it), as she continued scribbling away on her timeline. "You wouldn't be so defensive if you hadn't."

_Oh, so that's how we're going to play it_. David set his mouth in a thin line.

"No harm, no foul." Martin waved away the thought, trying to ease the tension by adding with a laugh, "People confuse me for an analyst all the time. You're David Rossi, correct?"

"Correct," David tried to focus his attention on the man speaking to him, not on the caustic harpy in the corner of the room who was probably smiling smugly at her little one-upmanship. God, if there was one thing he hated more than sycophants, it was passive-aggressive pot-shot takers, cowards who didn't have the guts for direct confrontation.

He took a second to acknowledge that he was being uncharacteristically brutal today, and he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because he hadn't had any coffee yet.

"Hey, Dave, where's the list of transactions?" Strauss turned away from the board to fix her light green eyes on Wallander, holding her dry-erase marker up like a question mark, punctuating her request.

Dear God, even the sound of her voice was annoying, David decided.

Wallander shuffled through a few stacks before he found it, "Here. Ya want me to read it to you?"

"Sure."

Wallander began reciting the items listed on the paper, and Strauss was scribbling furiously in an attempt to keep up. There was too much information and not enough timeline, but they only had one board, so she drew a line beneath the existing one and continued the timeline on the second row.

She had to bend over slightly to write at this new level, and despite his obvious dislike for her personality, David Rossi had to admit that she still had a very appealing body.

Of course, it had to be that exact moment that Strauss glanced over her shoulder to reaffirm something Wallander had said, and she caught Rossi's gaze.

The pervert didn't even have the good grace to at least  _pretend_  that he hadn't been checking out her ass. She gave a disgusted roll of her eyes, which did not go unnoticed by the object of her disdain. Then she stood to her full height again, fixing Rossi with a dead stare as she snapped the top back onto the marker with slightly more force and violence than necessary. He was pretty sure that she'd just sent him some kind of nonverbal threat, though he wasn't sure exactly what that threat was.

Dave Wallander felt like he'd fallen through the looking glass. He'd known Dave Rossi for years and had been working side-by-side with Erin Strauss for almost eight months now, and he'd never seen either of them react so viscerally to someone whom they'd just met, much less someone who hadn't actually done anything to provoke them. The change in their personalities was so out-of-character—Rossi was usually laid-back and easy-going, the charming and suave one, and Strauss was usually quiet and efficient, the shy and passive one.

Right now, they were moving around the room, occasionally glancing at one another, silently sizing each other up, like two big cats getting ready to fight to the bloody death.

They continued working in glorious silence, and finally, Rossi left to grab some coffee. It was then that Wallander noticed how Strauss' shoulders shifted, as if she was finally releasing the breath that she'd been holding ever since they'd gotten here. Suddenly, she looked smaller, more vulnerable, more fragile, and that immediately spoke to the white knight within Wallander.

"Y'okay?" He asked gently, moving closer to her side.

Her eyes remained fixed on the hallway, on David Rossi's retreating form, "I'll be fine. Just keep that man away from me."

* * *

**June 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

Derek Morgan had felt many things in Erin Strauss' presence—anger, confusion, frustration, pity, even mild amusement—but he'd never felt so... _awkward_.

Today was Hotch's last day before his little mini-vacation, and most people in his situation would simply make it a light day—but not Aaron Hotchner. It wasn't even nine o'clock, and he'd already called a briefing to pass out the new consult case assignments, which had come in while they were in Arizona.

Currently, the only people in the room were Strauss, Rossi, Penelope, and Derek. Baby Girl was too busy tapping away at her laptop to pay attention, but Morgan had front row seats, and he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

David Rossi was looking at Erin Strauss as if he might crawl across the conference table and devour her whole. Strauss looked as if she might just meet him halfway.

To their credit, those lascivious looks disappeared the instant that the rest of the team entered. Still, his gaze couldn't help but flicker between those two, observing them as if they'd both grown a second head. Sure, he knew about them being together, but he still felt like he'd entered some strange parallel universe. He could count on one hand the number of times that Strauss and Rossi had been in the same room without acting as if they wanted to kill one another.

"I know we've all been distracted by the Replicator case," Hotch didn't waste time nor breath as he entered the room, motioning for Garcia to start passing out the new assignments before everyone had even been seated. "But these latest assignments push us to our highest number for open consultations in the past eighteen months, so we need to focus on helping local law enforcement solve these cases as quickly as possible."

Blake opened her folder to peruse the details of her newest assignment, leaning over to Reid as she murmured, "I got an arsonist. What'd you get?"

"Cold case. Child abduction and double homicide." Spencer frowned, pushing back a wayward lock of hair. "Wanna trade?"

"Are you kidding? My guy left messages behind. You know how I love word games," Alex tried to remain playful, but she realized that Spencer wasn't sharing her humor. She leaned closer, becoming serious again as she quietly asked, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," came the reply, and Alex knew that it was a lie. Still, she didn't press the matter any further. She took a moment to glance around the table—she immediately caught Erin Strauss' gaze, and she knew that the blonde had been watching the exchange between her and Spencer. There was a soft concern at the corner of Erin's green eyes, and Alex found that she wasn't irritated by Erin's silent intrusion, because she understood that the other woman was genuinely worried about Spencer Reid's well-being.

Erin offered a quick smile and looked away. Alex realized that she still hadn't taken her out for coffee—perhaps they would have time this weekend, since Hotch was away and since James was coming home to her, instead of their usual arrangement of Alex going to see him.

The brunette's thoughts were interrupted by her unit chief, who was dismissing the briefing with a terse nod of his head, "Let's see what we can do today. Since we'll be playing catch-up, unless there is a major development in a current investigation or a new case that needs immediate attention, this will be our only briefing for the day. Which means our next official briefing will be Tuesday morning."

There was a round of grins as everyone silently rejoiced at the news—they were all like kids being released on spring break, Hotch decided with a slight smile of his own. Everyone dispersed, except for Erin Strauss, who patiently waited for his attention.

"Everything alright?" He asked more out of custom than concern, because if something were truly wrong, he'd already know—Strauss was never one to hide her emotions.

"No," she gave a tiny shake of her head. "I just wanted to make sure that everything was in order before you left. Proper chain of command, all that jazz."

"Dave will be supervising while I'm gone." Hotch kept his tone meticulously neutral as he added, "I trust that won't be a problem."

There was a look of surprise in Erin's big green eyes (did Aaron Hotchner just  _make a joke_ , to her, of all people?), and then she blushed (in a way that Aaron actually thought looked  _adorable_ , which was a word he'd never used in reference to that woman).

"No, I don't think that will be a problem," she agreed, the corners of her eyes smiling at this first attempt at friendly teasing between them. This was what it meant to be loved by David Rossi—you received the friendship of the rest of the BAU in turn, a thing which she hadn't realized that she'd even truly wanted until recently, a thing which she had never thought she'd ever value or need.

Of course, it was more than just David that connected them. Theirs was a bond that had been forged over the years, but had just recently come into fruition, into something more than sheer necessity, into something more comforting, especially since their mutual shock and fright at seeing their sons' photographs just a few short weeks ago.

"Don't stay away too long," she warned, her tone dancing with amusement. She brushed past him, moving to the door as she added, "I might get too used to having him as unit chief—and I already like him more than you."

Aaron Hotchner actually laughed at the quip, and though Erin didn't turn back around, he knew that she was grinning as she exited the bullpen.

He'd teased the Ice Queen of Quantico. And she had taken it as the joke that it was meant to be. And then she had teased back.

Dear God in Heaven. Miracles really could still happen.

* * *

**November 1988. New York City, New York.**

Dear God in Heaven. Samuel Sorenson would have gladly given his soul to Satan, if the ruckus in his conference room would just shut the fuck up.

Of course, it was Rossi and Strauss. It was only day three of the Roche investigation, and they had been butting heads from the word  _go_. If he didn't know any better, he would think they were an old married couple who simply enjoyed bickering.

Though the noises coming from the conference room would not be classified as bickering. Whatever the hell was going on, it was closer to nuclear warfare.

With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself from his chair, leaving his office to enter the conference room. As usual, the two gladiators were standing on either side of the table, arguing over some horribly trivial detail, Martin was at the far end of the table, head ducked down as he simply continued whatever he was doing, Talladeris was seated next to him, arms crossed over his barrel chest as he smiled wryly at the scene before him, thoroughly entertained by this latest fight. Wallander was at the dry-erase board, face skewed in an expression that bordered between exasperation and concern, and he actually had a hand outstretched, as if he felt like he might have to step in and rescue one of them from bodily harm. He'd been playing the buffer between them since day one, and it was starting to wear him down.

"Strauss! Rossi!" Sorenson's voice shattered the moment, the anger boiling just below the surface, with enough immediate violence to stop both of them. The two agents' heads whipped around at the sound, both looking like two children caught doing something they weren't supposed to be doing.

Despite his irritation at their complete inability to have a civil discussion, he had to admit that they were two of the best agents on this task force, and when they weren't trying to rip each other's heads off, they actually worked quite well together.

Which was exactly why he'd chosen them for this particular assignment.

"Got a fresh lead," he held up a scrap of paper with a name and address hurriedly scrawled across it.

Strauss and Rossi exchanged brief looks of confusion ( _surely he isn't wanting us to go out on a call together_ ) before slowly walking towards him.

"You want us to take this... _together_?" Rossi clarified, saying the last word as if the very thought of spending another minute with Agent Strauss was distasteful.

"Yes." Sorenson nodded, barely keeping his grin in check.

Rossi looked over at Strauss, whose grey-green eyes were wide with shock and possible fear. Now it was her turn to voice her concerns, "Sir, I'm not sure that's the best idea—"

"You two could use a little bonding time," he assured her, reaching out to give them both a pat on the arm. "Now grab your guns and go."

"How do you know we won't just shoot each other?" Strauss drawled, arching her eyebrow as she gave Rossi a slow burn ( _because trust me, buddy, I've considered it_ ). Talladeris gave a slight snicker and Wallander shot him a disapproving look.

Rossi gave an exasperated sigh and went back to the grab his jacket off the back of a chair, fixing Sorenson with a dark glare, which had absolutely no effect on the SAC whatsoever—Sorenson was too busy grinning like a Cheshire cat.

The two agents walked to the elevators, not even deigning to look at one another, much less speak.

"Well, there goes our entertainment for the afternoon," Talladeris feigned regret. This earned him a reprimanding look from Sorenson, which would have been much more effective if Sorenson wasn't still grinning at the quip.

Martin simply shook his head. Things were never that interesting or intense in the Philly White Collar Division, and he preferred it that way.

Sorenson returned to his own office, where his assistant Janna was waiting in the doorway, her eyes focused down the hall, at the elevators, where Strauss and Rossi were still standing side-by-side in silence.

"Why do you do that to them, Sorrie?" Janna shook her head, handing him another list of calls that needed to be returned. "You know they can't stand each other."

"Yet," he corrected her. With a soft smile, he leaned in conspiratorially, "Lemme let you in on a little secret, Janna. One day, those two names are gonna mean something in this Bureau—Rossi's already making a name for himself, and Strauss is catching up quick. They're too much alike, that's why they butt heads—"

Janna gave a slight huff of disbelief—Strauss and Rossi were as different in temperament as they were in looks, total night and day.

"No, think about it," Sorenson defended himself. "Yes, they have their differences, but the things they fight about—they fight because of the ways they're the same. They're both bullheaded as hell, both convinced they're dead-right, both too passionate about this job and this case to simply let things go, and at the end of the day, they want the same thing—for this case to end with the smallest amount of casualties and the bad guys locked away."

The younger woman considered his theory, "Alright, I'll buy that explanation. But that doesn't explain why you would intentionally send them out into the field together,  _knowing_  that they'll bicker the whole way there and back."

"Because," his grin deepened. "One day, I'm gonna get to tell horribly embarrassing stories about them, either at their funerals or their wedding."

Janna gave him an incredulous look, and he simply nodded, motioning back to the two agents who were boarding the elevator, their faces still set in stone, their body language screeching their distaste for one another. "They'll either end up together, or end up killing each other."

"They're both married. To other people."

"That doesn't mean a thing," Sorenson shook his head. "When your number comes up, you get drafted, whether you like it or not. Love doesn't differentiate between such things."

"Why, Samuel Sorenson, I never knew you were such a hopeless romantic," Janna teased, giving him a nudge with her shoulder. With a decisive nod, she decreed, "I think I'd put my money on the funeral, though."

* * *

After almost an hour of silence, Strauss and Rossi were finally able to behave civilly. They got out of the sedan, looking around at the neighborhood, pulling their jackets a little tighter as they moved onto the sidewalk. Now that they were in the field, their sense of camaraderie came out (it was too dangerous to fight when they were away from the safety of the FBI building, they had to have each other's back out here, where  _you_  and  _me_  became  _us against them_ ).

Despite the fact that she was a good half-foot shorter than he was, David realized that she was still keeping perfect pace with him.

"Quite a stride you got there, Strauss," he commented in an amused tone.

"Mother always said to move with a purpose," she said, her face fixed ahead and her eyes unreadable beneath her aviator shades.

"Smart lady."

"She likes to think so." David didn't miss the edge in her tone, the hint that Erin Strauss might not have the smoothest relationship with her mother.

"Is she anything like you?"

Now the corner of Strauss' mouth curved into a sardonic smile, "If I say no, it will only further prove how much alike we actually are. But no, not in most ways—not in the ways that she wishes we were alike, if that makes sense."

He nodded in understanding. After a beat, Strauss asked, "What about you? What's your mother like?"

"Italian," he surmised, and this earned him a short, sharp laugh, one that surprised him with its volume and force. He grinned as he continued, "Always moving, always yelling, always loving and cooking and doing all those stereotypical motherly things, ya know? I'm forty-one years old, and I'm pretty sure she'd still wrap my knuckles with a wooden spoon if I ever even  _thought_  about cursing in front of her."

Strauss laughed again, shaking her head at the comic image (slightly surprised at how much older he was than she, at how a man of his age could still act so childishly at times). Then she sobered as she glanced up at the number on a brownstone up ahead, "There's our house."

No one answered the door, even after they knocked and rang the door bell several times. Erin squinted, looking around the neighborhood with a light frown.

"They don't like the police around here," she surmised.

"Nope," Rossi agreed, giving a slight sigh of irritation as he went back down the steps.

"Hey, wait," Strauss' voice stopped him, and he turned back to her.

She made a slight gesture towards a group of children across the street. He arched his eyebrow, implying that he didn't think they'd be much help.

"C'mon," she jerked her head in the children's direction. "Little eyes and little ears always witness more than they're supposed to."

He couldn't argue with that logic, so he followed her across the street, hanging back to allow her to take control of the situation—she might be a stranger, but she was a woman, and that inherently made her seem like less of a threat to the kids. Also, with her blue jeans and her frizzy blonde hair, she looked like less of a federal agent than Rossi did.

She took off her sunshades, giving the children a smile that was too bright to be disingenuous (the first smile that David Rossi had ever seen on Erin Strauss' face, and he immediately decided that she was actually pretty when she smiled).

"Hi," she waited for them to acknowledge her before she got too close.

"Who are you?" A brunette girl, who appeared to be the oldest and obviously the leader of this rag-tag group of neighborhood kids, stepped forward, and their game was temporarily halted.

"I'm Erin. Who are you?"

"Tanya."

"What a lovely name. Did you know it means fairy queen?"

David was taken aback by this random knowledge—who the hell was this woman? She obviously sensed his surprise, because she tossed him a look over her shoulder ( _yeah, I've got layers, buddy_ ). He simply grinned and shook his head.

"Well, now I do," Tanya gave a slight shrug, though David could tell that she was pleased with this new information.

"I'm hoping you can help me, Tanya," Erin easily popped down into a crouching position, which actually made her shorter than Tanya (a good move, David silently congratulated her, it redistributed the feeling of power between them, made Tanya feel more at-ease, because it wasn't an adult hovering over her, but a friend on her level). She motioned back to the brownstone, "I came to see my friend, Mr. Parsons, and he doesn't seem to be home. Have you seen him today?"

Tanya shook her head, and one of her male playmates, suddenly jealous of the attention, piped up, "He left a couple of days ago. I think he was going on vacation—he took a lot of big bags with him."

"Shut up, Toby," Tanya turned around, glaring at him.

Toby realized that he'd said too much, and he ducked his head. Erin reached forward, gently placing her hand on Toby's arm, "No, no, it's alright, Toby. That was very helpful. I just really need to find my friend."

"You're not his friend," Tanya replied succinctly. "You're not from here. You're a cop."

Erin took a moment to glance back at David.  _Kids. They'd marked us from the moment we arrived._

"I'm not a cop," Erin corrected her, shifting slightly to pull her badge from her back pocket. "I'm an agent with the FBI. Do you know what that is?"

Tanya nodded solemnly. "You work for the government."

"I do. That's right."

"Why are you trying to arrest Mr. Parsons?" Toby was curious.

"I'm not trying to arrest him," Erin replied. "I'm trying to protect him. You see, Mr. Parsons knows things that could put a bad man away for a very long time, and that means he's in danger. Which is why I need to find him, before the bad man does."

There was a heavy beat as young minds tried to digest the meaning behind Erin's words.

"We don't know where he went," Tanya finally answered.

Erin offered one last smile. "That's OK. Tanya, Toby, thank you both for helping."

"You...you won't tell him that we helped you, will you?" Toby's voice quivered slightly, and Erin saw the same fear reflecting in Tanya's eyes as well.

"Never," she promised. She took a moment to look into their eyes, to let them see that she was being sincere. Then she rose to her feet again, offering a little wave as she moved away, "Thanks again."

Tanya gave a curt nod, suddenly looking much older and wiser.

David waited until they were across the street again before he spoke, "You shouldn't have told them that Parsons was flipping on Roche."

"Do you know why most people are so bad about talking to kids?" Erin slipped her sunshades back onto her face. "Because they don't tell them the truth. People think you need to shield kids, treat them like delicate objects. Kids are stronger than you give them credit for, Rossi, and those kids in particular. They knew who we were and what we wanted long before I said anything. And I guarantee you, living in this neighborhood, they've seen and heard way worse things than what I told them today."

He had to agree with her on that. "Still, you probably shouldn't have told them that we were trying to protect Parsons, especially since he's a suspect, not an informant, and especially since he isn't really flipping and we aren't really trying to protect him."

"And if I had simply said that we wanted to ask him a few questions, how do you think they would have interpreted that?" She didn't stop, but she checked her stride so that he was walking next to her now. "In the world they live in, asking someone a few questions has a very different connotation than our idea of simply standing at the front door and having a civil conversation."

He hummed in agreement, then he added, "They know who else is looking for Parsons."

"What?"

"The boy, Toby. He said 'you won't tell  _him_ '. Usually, when speaking of a general, unknown person, you refer to their title—the bad guy, the UNSUB, the man who left the car, you get the picture. Toby didn't say the bad guy. He used a personal pronoun, because he was already picturing a specific person."

"This is Roche's childhood stomping grounds," Erin looked around at the arched oaks and fading bricks. "Maybe he still visits, from time to time."

"Maybe," David tucked his hands in his pockets as they walked along. After a beat, he grinned again, "So, Tanya means fairy queen?"

She chuckled lightly (because she knew that he'd bring it up, eventually), "Yes. My husband...he's been reading me names and their meanings, from this baby name book. I think that he thinks it'll make me suddenly want a baby, but so far, no dice."

"You'd make a good mother," David decided. He motioned back down the street, "You're good with kids."

"That's not a good enough reason to have one," she informed him. Then she gave a slight shrug, "Besides, that was a very brief encounter—three minutes, tops. Babies are full-time and forever."

He took a moment to simply observe her, trying to catalogue the feelings flitting across her profile as they walked along, "So you don't want children."

"No." There was a slight shake of her head, an almost-regretful note in her voice.

"But your husband does."

"Yes." There was the source of the regret. The age-old battle of who-has-to-compromise.

"That sucks," he had nothing else to say, nothing that wouldn't seem too touchy-feely or too clinical or too cliché.

She gave a low hum of amusement, "Yeah, it sucks."

Deciding to change the subject to something safer, he motioned to the bodega at the corner of the street, "Coffee?"

"Sure," she shrugged, and they continued onward in comfortable silence. After they got their coffee, she waited for him to catch up to her again as they walked back to the car.

"You don't have to wait for me to walk you to the car, Strauss," he admonished her. She laughed, and he looked at her in askance.

"It has nothing to do with me waiting for you," she informed him. "If I walk ahead of you, you're just gonna be staring at my ass the whole time."

He gave her a look of utter shock, and she burst into laughter again—a big, booming cackle that didn't seem to fit her delicate structure and haughty ways.

"Oh, don't pretend," she waved away his expression. "I saw you do it."

He simply shook his head, chuckling self-consciously. In that moment, she decided that he really wasn't such a bad guy. She leaned over conspiratorially, her shoulder bumping his, "It's quite alright, Agent Rossi. I understand. It's a nice ass."

This time, he did laugh—out of surprise, out of shock, out of delight that Erin Strauss actually had a sense of humor, out of amusement at her own laugh, which was echoing with his.

Somehow, this became a moment of temporary truce between them, a slight calm in the midst of the storm—both knew that as soon as they re-entered the FBI building, they'd fall back on opposite sides of the fence again (if they even waited that long), both felt that they still didn't entirely like the other person, and both were quite alright with that.

But right now, as they were walking side-by-side and clutching their coffee, while no one was watching, they could pretend to be friends. Even if it was just pretend, it was nice.

* * *

_"Any act often repeated soon forms a habit; and habit allowed, steady gains in strength. At first it may be but as a spider's web, easily broken through, but if not resisted, it soon binds us with chains of steel."_

_~Tyron Edwards._


	51. Where the Heart Lies

_ "Those who hunt for treasure must go alone at night, and when they find it, it is never what they expect, and they must leave some of their blood behind." _

_ ~English Lit Axiom of the Epic Hero, aka The Six-Point Plotline of Questing Tales. _

* * *

**June 2013. Quantico, Virginia.**

David knew that it was bad news before Aaron even opened his mouth. Still, it was worse than expected.

"A digging crew in Kansas found a body. The Topeka Field Office is convinced that it's a Yates victim."

"Oh, God," David rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was barely past noon, and this certainly wasn't the day to re-open the can of emotional worms that always came along with Thomas Yates.

Aaron's mouth hardened into a thin line as he delivered the worst part, "Yates has been questioned, but he's refusing to answer anything."

David looked up at him with a heavy sigh, "Lemme guess—he only wants to talk to me."

His friend gave a curt nod, his dark eyes filled with pity. Suddenly, a motion down in the bullpen caught Aaron's attention, and he turned to see Strauss clipping across the carpet. "I also should have warned you that Erin knows. She was the one who called and told me."

"She's here, isn't she?" From his vantage point, David couldn't see into the bullpen, but judging from Aaron's reaction, it was pretty easy to guess what had reminded him of that fact.

"Yep," Aaron stepped out of the doorframe, giving a curt nod to his superior, who barreled into David's office with her usual presumptuous air (which used to annoy the hell out of him, but now he just found it comforting).

"Agent Hotchner's told you, then," she didn't even waste time with pleasantries.

"Yes."

"And you're going." That wasn't a question, or even a guess, because she knew her lover and she knew the sense of commitment that he felt toward this particular case.

"Yes." God love this woman for a saint, because she didn't even flinch at the pronouncement, instead simply nodding in agreement and launching into a plan of attack.

"I've already ordered the jet. They can get you to Blountville in about two and a half hours, and from there, we'll arrange an escort to Lee—the airport is about sixty miles from the penitentiary, so if they use their lights, they'll be there in under an hour."

He gave a curt nod of approval (and Erin was thankful that he didn't object, that he didn't insist on driving himself there, which was a twelve-hour round trip by car).

"Since you've got this all sorted out, I'll get back to my consults," Hotch could sense that there was more that needed to be discussed between the two—things that had nothing to do with flights and cars—and he graciously bowed out.

Erin closed the door behind him, taking a moment to simply look at David.

"This was unexpected," she stated the obvious.

"Such is life," he remained stoic.

"You don't mind taking the jet?" She was suddenly hesitant, suddenly not the coolly self-assured section chief, but rather the tender uncertain lover. "I know you tend to think of this as your own personal thing, and I don't mind, I understand, I just—"

"I don't mind," he assured her.

"Good." She gave a curt nod. Then, with a softer edge, she admitted, "I want you home tonight."

"I'll be home," he replied gently, his own voice husky with emotion. "It'll be late, but I'll be back."

Her shoulders shifted in relief, and she moved away from the door, glancing over her shoulder, making sure no one was looking through the window (as if they all didn't know, he thought in mild amusement). Then she crouched between his legs, her hands on his knees as she peered up into his dark eyes, searching for some kind of reassurance that he was truly alright, "And...and what if he gives you a name?"

He knew what she was really asking— _if you get a name, will you jet off to make the notification?_

"I'll pass it along to Topeka."

"Really?" She was surprised by his answer. "If...if you wanted to go, I could ask Agent Morgan to step in as supervisor, until you got back."

He was certain that he couldn't have loved her more in that moment, with her careful concernities, with her understanding of his ways and his mind, with her own gentle sacrifices (because she'd already admitted to wanting him home tonight, but here she was, offering to let him go wherever he needed, because she knew what this meant for him, because she wanted to put his needs before her own).

He reached forward, cupping her face in his hands, running his thumbs over her cheek bones as he bestowed a kiss on her forehead, "Thank you, bella, but I think it's time that I started letting someone else shoulder the burden. It doesn't matter who shows up on the doorstep, that woman's family is going to be ripped to pieces. I can't change that."

She made a small noise in her throat, something between agreement and condolence, her hands reaching up to wrap around his wrists, holding his hands against her face for just a few moments longer.

"I wish I could go with you," she closed her eyes at the admission. She gave a small smile, "It's silly, I know, but I would feel so much better if I could just be there, just to hold your hand."

There was a sense of commitment, a deeper undertone to this confession that made David want to weep. It was such a simple concept, yet it contained such sheer magnitude, such heavy weight of fidelity and love.

"I wish you could, too," he kissed her forehead again, this time with a fierceness that proved the sincerity of his statement. Then he grinned, his nose gently brushing against hers, his lips finally meeting her mouth, "It would be just like old times."

She hummed in amusement, the vibration rumbling against his mouth, "Not quite."

"You don't think so?" He was teasing now, and Erin played along, willingly distracting him from the seriousness ahead.

"What? You want us to bicker and fuss the whole time, like a couple of toddlers?" She arched her brow.

"Of course not," he assured her. Then his tone dipped lower, "But I would like us to end up in a hotel somewhere—"

"David Rossi, you and your one-track mind," her tone was reprimanding, but she was still leaning forward, still seeking his mouth with her own. "I thought you wanted me for emotional support, and all you want is physical distraction."

"I want all of it," he assured her, returning her kisses between words. "All of you."

"Good recovery," she grinned.

"You should come with us, next time the BAU takes a case."

"And what excuse would I have?" Her voice was laced with amusement.

"I'll think of something."

"I bet you will."

He grinned at her words, pulling her smart mouth back to his own. After one last languorous kiss, she pulled away, hands automatically reaching up to make sure her hair was still respectable.

"You are going to turn me into some horrible cautionary tale about intra-departmental relationships," she didn't seem too worried about this.

David gently placed his hand on her shoulder, stilling her for a moment as he craned his neck to check the bullpen, making sure that the coast was clear before allowing Erin to rise to her feet again. Then he oh-so-helpfully smoothed the lines of her skirt, taking the time to appreciate the curves underneath.

She allowed him to have this brief moment of tenderness, smiling down at him as she gently brushed his hair back into place, "There's some exhibit opening tonight—it's one of Jordan's projects that she's been working on for months, so we're going to see it. Maybe do dinner after. If you're back in time, I'll just meet you at the museum. If not, I'll come back to your place afterwards."

"Sounds good," he gave a curt nod, already saddened by the realization that he probably would have to miss another chance to be around his son and the rest of Erin's family, which were beginning to feel like his own.

"Paul will be there," she added, almost apprehensively.

"I would hope so," David returned easily. "He should support his daughter."

Erin gave a small smile of relief at his reaction. They were still trying to sort out so many things, and her ex-husband was definitely not a popular topic between them, but David understood that Paul would forever be a part of Erin's life, simply because he was the father of her two daughters. David was trying, and for that, Erin loved him.

"The jet will be ready in about forty minutes," she informed him. He gave another nod, rising to his feet as he began gathering the things he would need for his journey into Yates' twisted psyche.

"I'll see you tonight, bella," he promised. She reached over, giving his hand one last reassuring squeeze.

"Be safe," she whispered her familiar refrain as her thumb brushed over the ridges of his knuckles. With a regretful look over her shoulder, she opened the office door and disappeared.

David moved to the window, watching her weave through the bullpen, already missing the simple soothing comfort of her presence and smiling at the fact that it wasn't too long ago that he used to rejoice at her departure.

Another movement caught his eye, and he saw Alex Blake, leaning nonchalantly against her desk, arms folded over her chest as she simply stared up at him. She glanced over her shoulder at Strauss' retreating form, then back to Rossi, arching her brow suggestively ( _a little something for the road, Rossi?_ ).

David grinned, but shook his head ( _it's not like that_ ).

She gave him an incredulous look ( _as if I don't know you, David Rossi_ ).

He crossed his arms over his chest ( _I resent that implication_ ).

Blake mimed smudged lipstick and ruffled her hair ( _I saw how Strauss looked before and after she left your office_ ).

Again, he shook his head, lightly stroking his goatee ( _damn profilers_ ).

With a huge grin of her own, Alex Blake's expressive hands used the ASL sign for  _busted_.

David wasn't fluent in sign language, but he had enough context clues to understand the meaning. He simply laughed.

His colleague pointed at him, eyes narrowing in feigned scrutiny ( _admission of guilt, right there_ ).

He held up his hands in surrender ( _guilty as charged_ ).

Now it was Alex's turn to laugh. Then she turned back to her desk, shaking her head in mock dismay.

With a heavy sigh, David turned back to his own desk. It was going to be a very long day.

* * *

**September 2002. New York City, New York.**

It had been a year. One whole year. Just over 365 days ago, the nation had changed in the blink of an eye. History had changed, innocence and trust and security had been destroyed, and the city itself had been forever damaged by the impact.

Alex Blake contemplated all of these things as she sat on the uncomfortable iron-wrought bench outside the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Next to her sat Erin Strauss, a Quantico Section Chief who'd been brought onto the Amerithrax case due to her background in analysis and her former Joint Task Force connections (and also because Ollie Henderson had suffered a heart attack while working this case, leaving the investigation with a big gaping hole where a competent SAC should have been).

Apparently, Strauss' thoughts were along the same line as Blake's, because she gently broke the silence, squinting up at the concrete jungle surrounding them, "I never much cared for the city, but it's sad, seeing how much things have changed."

"Change is inevitable," Blake said philosophically.

"Doesn't make it any easier," Strauss returned. After a beat, she corrected her earlier statement, "It still looks the same, in many ways, but it feels different. Like the air is heavier."

"That's the mournfulness," the brunette informed her softly, and she nodded in agreement.

Then Erin glanced down at the newspaper that was lying under their bench, a few days old, tattered and stained and left behind. The front page was a white and grey outline of the former Towers, with columns upon columns of names typed out in black ink (so succinct, so final, so cut-and-dried, so oblivious to the lives and souls and stories tied to each name). Names without faces, losses without understanding, a quantification of things which could never be fully quantified, bottled up and accounted for with a simple "yes, this was our loss, this is the measure of what has been ripped away from us, this is the final tally of things which could never fit so orderly into rows for numbering".

"2977 names," Erin said, her voice lined with conviction.

"2996 dead," Alex replied gently. Erin looked up at her again, slightly surprised that Blake had included the 19 hijackers in her final count.

"Yes. 2996 dead," she agreed, taking a moment to simply study the younger woman. Something unreadable passed through her green eyes, and then she rose to her feet, "I suppose we should go back—I'm afraid Tomlin will send out a search party if we're gone any longer."

Blake grinned at the quip—Agent Tomlin was the unofficial hall monitor, and he watched the clock every time that someone left for a lunch break ( _one hour and one hour only, not one hour and ten minutes, not one hour and fifteen, just one hour_ ).

They entered the building, moving back through security checkpoints before crossing to the bank of elevators. They boarded the elevator, Strauss checking her watch and straightening her jacket cuffs in what Alex now realized was a trademark move for the blonde, a weird almost-nervous tic.

Alex liked Strauss. Some people called her a bitch, and Alex could see where that moniker could be true, but she also had to admit to the age-old adage:  _bitches get shit done_.

Erin Strauss was someone who pushed, who got things done, who was unafraid to toe the line. That was admirable, and vital in their line of work. Sure, people had said that Strauss was a fast-tracker, but that didn't faze Blake. After all, she was a career agent, too.

The elevator stopped on another floor, and another member of their JTF entered the elevator, arms full with a box of papers.

"Afternoon, Chief Strauss, Agent Blake."

"Good afternoon, Agent Curtis," Strauss' voice dipped lower, into her 'official' register, her speech more precise and clipped. People's diction and pitch had always fascinated Alex Blake, and she loved listening to how one's voice changed between situations and social faces.

"Looks like quite a box of goodies you've got for us," Alex smiled.

"It took me all night, but I think I've finally got everything we need," Curtis admitted.

Erin suddenly noticed his rumpled jacket and his wrinkled shirt, "When's the last time you actually went home for the night?"

"Wednesday? Maybe Tuesday?" He wasn't sure.

"You should go home and get some rest," Strauss' brow furrowed in concern.

"But the case isn't closed," he replied simply, as if he couldn't fathom ever leaving an investigation for something as trivial as sleep.

Erin's mind quickly catalogued how to express her concern in a way that John Curtis would understand, "Agent, you're of no use to this investigation if you're deprived of sleep. You lose functionality and efficiency, and in the end, it could make you more of a liability than an asset."

This time, he saw her logic, "Very true, Chief Strauss. I'll be more mindful of that in the future."

She gave a curt nod of approval. After a beat, she noticed that he was still mentally chiding himself for possibly compromising their case through his over-diligence, and she felt a pang of pity. She'd merely wanted to express her concern for his well-being, not chastise him for actually being a dedicated agent.

Most people wouldn't have been bothered by her comment, but Erin Strauss was quickly learning that John Curtis wasn't most people—he had a singular determination, a sense of commitment that went above and beyond most others' loyalty to the Bureau. He was one of those true-blue patriots, who saw his job, his service to his country and the FBI, as the ultimate achievement of his life, and the only worthy pursuit thereof.

She smiled slightly, attempting to soothe the uneasiness that she'd created, "After all, you are one of our best assets. You're the smartest man in the room on this one, Agent Curtis—probably the smartest man in the Bureau."

Alex gave a small nod of agreement, silently understanding Strauss' intent. She'd known Curtis for awhile now, and he'd always been quiet and efficient, but this particular case had pushed him to a level of dogged determination that surprised her.

 _We have to be the heroes_ , he had told her.  _After all that's happened, we need a win, and this is the case that will make things more bearable. People expect us to catch the bad guys. We have to. It's our function in society. We have to be the heroes._

She contemplated Curtis' past words, taking a second to fully appreciate the fact that this truly was her life—riding in a elevator, next to one of the smartest people in the world, and one of the FBI's great rising stars, working on a case that would define the course of a nation's history, a case that was vital to the nation's healing, a case that would make her career and make them all by-words in academy classes for years to come.

_We have to be the heroes._

_We are. We are the heroes._

* * *

**June 2013. Lee Penitentiary, near Jonesville, VA**.

As usual, Tommy Yates was humming an eerie tune as Rossi entered the room. However, this time, it wasn't the familiar  _Happy Birthday_  refrain.

Rossi was pretty sure it was  _Hail to the Conquering Hero_.

Sick bastard. David wanted to punch him in the face. Instead he pasted on his driest smile, feigning a sense of amusement which he did not feel.

"Cute, Tommy," he lightly tossed a folder onto the table. Yates sat a little straighter in curiosity, but he didn't actually reach for the file.

"I have to admit, Agent Rossi, I was expecting to see you back here much sooner."

"Why is that?"

"Aw, c'mon, David. We both know that I'm your special project. I can't believe you even let those other guys try to question me."

"I didn't know anything about it until after the fact," David admitted. Then his expression hardened as he added, "And you're not my special project. You just refuse to speak to anyone else."

"And you always come when I call," Yates finished with a smug smile.

"Here I am," David opened his hands in a magnanimous gesture. "So tell me her name."

Thomas Yates leaned forward, tilting his head towards the still-closed folder, "Don't you have some pictures to show me first?"

"Nope."

"Agent Rossi, you aren't playing fair."

"I'm not here to play fair, Tommy. I'm here to get a name."

"But those aren't the rules. You get one name, once a year. You've already gotten Janie, and not even a full month ago." Yates sat back again, his eyes dancing with the hint of a smile. "I guess you'll just have to wait until next year."

David gave a weary sigh, "I was afraid you'd say that."

He rose to his feet and moved back to the door. It was a dangerous move on his part, because Yates might not actually stop him from leaving, but it was how they played the game—Thomas Yates, insignificant little fuck that he was, needed to feel as if he had power and control. He needed to feel as if he were the one manipulating David Rossi, not vice versa (though David found some small bit of satisfaction in knowing that he could pull Yates' strings, without ever letting him catch on).

"Leaving so soon?"

David didn't turn to face him, "All I want is a name, Tommy, and you've made it very clear that you're not going to give me that name. So my job here is done."

"Oh, c'mon, Agent Rossi, faint heart never won fair lady." There was something behind Yates' tone, something that had begun to prick the first sensation of warning across David's skin. "But you already know that, don't you?"

He couldn't know. He  _couldn't_. He was just using everything he could, until he hit a button. David took a shallow breath to steady himself.

"That's why you became an agent, isn't it? Daring deeds, saving damsels in distress—you're a regular white knight, aren't you, Agent Rossi?"

He didn't know. David's bones almost melted in relief. Still, he carefully kept his body the same, slowly turning back to Yates, "And what does that make you?"

Thomas Yates ignored the question. "Any knight who's been on a quest knows that, in the end, you have to leave some of your blood behind. There has to be a kind of sacrifice, in order to get what you want."

David didn't respond. He simply waited.

Yates continued, "But you already know that, too, don't you? That's why you drive all the way over here, that's why you go out to notify the families, that's why you keep that little list with you. And that's why you brought those photographs, which you still haven't shown me."

He motioned to the metal chair, which was bolted to the floor, "Sit down, Agent Rossi. Don't pretend that you didn't know how this would end. You know me, perhaps better than anyone else."

That was meant to be a compliment, but it only made David feel like a monster. Still, he had to acknowledge the truth—he did know Thomas Yates, he understood him, he could walk inside his mind and his thoughts as easily as breathing. He wished like hell that he didn't possess such ability, but he did. He did and he had to use that ability as the gift that it was meant to be, as the tool that it was, as the means of bringing some closure to old wounds and ending reigns of terror for other monsters just like Yates. He had to do this, because no one else could, or would.

His parents had always taught him that was the measure of a man, the measure of a true hero—setting aside your fears and your reservations and your own distaste, simply to get the job done, to do what no one else had the courage or ability to do.

 _This is your gift_ , his mother used to say.  _It seems like darkness, but it is your gift, and you must use it, David. You must use it, as a gift to others._

So he fought back another wave of loathing as he sat down again, his eyes locking onto Yates'.

This wasn't about David Rossi. This wasn't even about Thomas Yates. This was about a woman in a ditch in Kansas who deserved to be buried in peace and dignity, and a family somewhere who had lived with unanswered prayers and terrifying questions for God-only-knows-how-long.

"First," David placed his hand over the file, keeping it just out of Yates' reach. "You give me a name."

* * *

**Washington, D.C.**

Erin was halfway through the exhibit when she heard her phone buzzing in her purse, and she stepped away from the others as she found it, glancing at the screen and being relieved to see David's name glowing back at her.

"Hey," she answered gently, unsure of what his emotional state might be.

"I'm headed home, bella. We're getting ready for take-off right now." He sounded tired and flat.

"Good." She gave a curt nod of approval. After a beat, she asked, "Is there...did you get a name?"

"I did."

"And you're truly alright with letting someone else handle the notification?" She hated to press the subject, but she knew how David felt about this case in particular.

He understood her concern, because he gave a light sigh, "There was a time when I would have felt like I needed to go out and do the notification myself. But right now, all I need is to be home. With you."

This simple admission was enough to bring tears to Erin's eyes, and not for the first time that day, she wished that she was at his side.

"I'm here," she replied softly. "And I'll be here when you get home."

"I know," there was a huskiness in David's voice, though he sounded too tired for tears. In the background, she heard some mechanical noise, and David spoke again, "I've gotta go, bella. We're taking off."

"I love you," she said before she ended the call. She didn't have to wait to hear his reply.

She already knew.

* * *

**Rural Virginia.**

David's heart filled with a now-familiar warmth as he spotted the gunmetal grey crossover parked under his carport, the silent herald that his lady-love was already quietly tucked away in his bed. He smiled to himself as he pulled his car into the space next to Erin's.

He gave another small smile as he bounded up the porch steps and greeted Mudgie, who was enthusiastic as always about his return. Then he climbed the stairs and walked across the landing, where he could see a familiar silhouette underneath the covers.

The large bedroom window curtains were open, and when David's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see the stars twinkling in the velvet sky—Erin loved how clear and crisp the universe seemed from the clean air of the country, and when she was here, she often left the curtains open so that she could stare up at the heavens. She never lost her wonder for the beauty of nature, and that filled him with a soft wonder in turn, so he didn't mind it at all.

He quietly discarded his clothes, meticulously placing everything in its proper place, being careful not to disturb the sleeping blonde. Then he slipped beneath the covers, relishing in the warmth already created by her body.

Erin stirred when she felt the mattress shift, turning with a sleepy smile towards him, her leg easily swinging over his hip as she pulled them closer together.

"You're home," she beamed, still sleepy and adorable as she kissed him.

"I'm home," he returned the smile, relishing the feel of her naked body against his. She always did that—slept completely nude on the nights that she was with him. It was as if she couldn't stand the thought of anything—even a mere strip of clothing—being between them. He certainly didn't mind.

She pulled him closer again, their hips and abdomens flushed together as her mouth traveled across the line of his collar bone. Her kisses were deep, slow, sensuous.

"Tomorrow, bella," he whispered, too tired and too emotionally drained to explain any further.

She seemed to understand, because her mouth ceased its movements and she simply laid her head on his chest, her blonde crown fitting so perfectly into the curve of his neck as his fingers loosely toyed with the curls that were now disheveled by sleep.

After a few moments of simply letting him unwind by playing with her hair, she turned her face upwards, her lips blessing his own with quick, tiny kisses, as if she was siphoning his love in small doses. Then his hand went deeper into her hair, holding her head as his tongue parted her lips, deepening the kisses. She responded with a small hum of approval, her tongue loving his own.

Then she pulled back with another smile, still happy but much more awake as her green eyes found his brown ones in the darkness.

"Tomorrow?" She repeated, though there wasn't much question about it.

He kissed her forehead tenderly as he confirmed, "Tomorrow."

With another sigh of happiness, she turned away from him, back to her open country sky, smiling as she felt him pull her back into him again, their bodies melding together in a way that was familiar and comforting.

The skin on her back was warm and smooth against his chest, and David's closed lips came to rest on her bare shoulder, which peeked above the covers like the dawning sun. His arm was around her waist, and her fingers were threaded through his own, tethering him to her.

Home was not a place. It was not even a feeling. It was a blonde woman who could infuriate and entrance in the same breath, who endlessly fascinated him, like his own personal Sphinx, forever filling his life with riddles and new delights. It was the deep certainty of knowing that he saw her, as she truly was, on every level, and knowing that he was the only true witness to her beautifully complex and intricate life's story, the sole keeper of her keys, the lone guardian of her soul's gate, the one chosen above all others to know and to see, to have and to hold, to keep and to cherish. It was letting his heart fly from his chest to nest in his lover's hands, and receiving the same fragile, tender gift in return. And wherever his heart was, that was his home. And now, David Rossi knew that he was truly, deeply, unmistakably home.

In a moment of utter clarity, he realized that if this were his last night on earth, he would die the happiest man in the world—curled up beside his soul's true mate, listening to the gentle sound of her breathing as he looked out at the night sky, the promise of another morning filled with warm kisses and sleepy, sweet love-making just as certain as the sunrise.

Of course, he didn't plan on this being his last night, not by a long shot. There was still so much to do and to see, to know and to discover, so much of the world to share with the woman sleeping peacefully in his embrace. The world was still uncertain, there were still so many things to be settled and righted, but for now, he took the moment as it was—a simple joy, the gentle breath after a long journey, the moment of knowing, quite wonderfully, that for now, he was well and truly home.

* * *

_"I would walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more—just to be the man who walked a thousand miles to fall down at your door. When I wake up, well I hope I'm gonna be the man who's waking up to you, and when I'm dreaming, well I know I'm gonna dream about the time I had with you."_

_~The Proclaimers (words rearranged according to the cover by Sleeping at Last—which you should go listen to, it's beautiful, haunting, perfect)_


	52. Brontide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: When you have finished reading this, you will have read a fanfic that is over three times the length of JRR Tolkien's "The Hobbit". I'm not sure if you should be proud or if you should really consider your life choices (that was a joke...sort of...).

_ "It is not light that we need, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, the earthquake. " _

_ ~Frederick Douglass. _

* * *

**November 1988. New York City, New York.**

Despite their temporary truce on day three, Rossi and Strauss were back to their usual mutual disdain by day five, and by day six, all hell was threatening to break loose.

"How did we lose him?" Talladeris shook his head in frustration.

"Well, we're in a city of 7.2 million people," Wallander's voice was flat and unaffected as he scanned the newspaper. "So I'd say it's pretty easy to do."

"It ain't that big of a city, if you know where to look," Talladeris replied.

"A guy like Roche's got to have some kind of safe house," Rossi pointed out.

"We've searched every residence that he's got," Strauss reminded him.

"If it's a safe house, we wouldn't know about it," Rossi retorted.

"If he has it, we know about it," she countered, looking up from her stack of files. They'd already clashed a few times that morning, and she felt like he was intentionally trying to push her buttons, which aggravated her to no end. "We have traced every single cent that man has spent in the last fifteen years. If he'd bought a house, or any other property, we'd know about it."

"What if he didn't buy it?" Rossi challenged. He never could understand how Strauss got here, because her ability to think outside of the box was nonexistent. "What if it's family property, or—"

"We've tracked the financials on all of his close friends and relatives," Strauss snapped. "There is nothing—"

"You mean you've  _found_  nothing—"

"No, I mean if we didn't find it, then it isn't there—"

"You can't guarantee that—"

"Yes, yes, I can. Our analysts have—"

"You and your beloved analysts," Rossi turned away with a dramatic roll of his eyes.

"Would you stop interrupting me?" The frustration was building in her tone ( _don't you dare turn away from me, don't you dare dismiss me_ ) and of course, Rossi chose to ignore the warning. She was annoying the ever-living hell out of him (seriously, asking him to stop interrupting, when she was doing the exact same thing to him), so he put on his most unaffected air and nonchalantly threw his next barb over his shoulder, still not deigning to look at her.

"Look, I know you think analysts are the end-all, be-all, but I've got news for you, kitten—"

There was a flurry of noise, and a horrible ripping thud as a heavy binder full of papers went flying across the room, hitting the wall with enough force to leave a mark and a slight dent in the plaster.

David whirled back around to see Erin Strauss more livid than he'd ever seen her before—tight-lipped, wide-eyed, heaving chest, red-faced and deathly still. There were papers all over the table, slipping onto to the floor from the residual force of her hurling the binder across the room, and for a moment, those soft slips of paper were the only things moving.

"Don't you  _ever_  call me that again," her voice was shaking with pure rage, becoming hoarse under the strain of all the anger that she was trying (and failing) to keep in check. "I can take the snide comments and the eye-rolling and your complete inability to consider any idea that isn't your own, but gods fucking dammit, don't you  _dare_  patronize me."

"Strauss, it's OK," as usual, Dave Wallander stepped in to save the day, moving forward to reach for her, but one cutting glance from Erin stopped him completely.

"No, it's not. It's not OK." She brought her voice down a notch, closer to a calmer tone, and it was then that David realized how deeply he'd hurt her—she was still so impossibly rigid, and he suddenly realized that she was on the verge of shattering completely into tears (that was why she was moving away from Wallander, because if he touched her, she would cry, and she didn't want to cry in front of them).

There was an awful, heavy moment as everyone stood still, uncertain of what to do. Then Erin Strauss blinked, as if she'd snapped out of a trance.

"I...I think I need to get some air," she whispered, fluttering her hands at Wallander, who was still trying to help, shooing him away from her. She turned on her heel and left the room.

Wallander turned back to Rossi, who held up his hand, "Don't. I already know."

"Then you also already know that you better fix it," Wallander retorted. Erin Strauss was his partner, his colleague, and sometimes his friend. Most of the time, he knew that she could handle herself, and he trusted her ability to survive, but this last battle with Rossi had hit some emotional land mine within her that had truly hurt her in some way, and that made Wallander want to take a swing at David Rossi.

Despite the fact that he knew that Wallander was right, David still wanted to hit him. First of all, David Rossi did not like being chastised, especially when he'd already admitted to being wrong, and secondly, Erin Strauss was the last person to need a valiant defender—she could handle herself just fine, and David didn't like the idea that Wallander suddenly felt the need to save her. He wasn't exactly sure why the second point bothered him, but it did.

With a frustrated sigh, David Rossi left the room, in search of the infuriating blonde who had pushed him to anger and then made him feel guilty for being angry.

* * *

Erin Strauss was in the break room, sipping her coffee with an odd sense of self-contained determination ( _I will stand here, I will drink this entire cup—which probably won't help my nerves—and I will not move or think about it anymore, and when I am done, I will go back into that room and do my fucking job, I am a Breyer, I can take anything they throw at me, I can, I will, I must..._ ), her eyes focused blankly ahead, too deep in her own mind to actually see anything.

She didn't know why being called kitten bothered her so much (after all, she'd been called much worse, many times, and it never fazed her), but it did. Maybe it wasn't the name so much as it was the implication behind it— _kitten_ , docile, fluffy, no substance, no value, something to be dismissed and disdained, unworthy of respect (so many of the things that the voices in her head already screamed on a daily basis).

Really, she shouldn't have put anything past David Rossi—if she'd learned anything over the past week, it was that he would do and say anything, just to win an argument, no matter how petty the fight nor how caustic the remark. It was a low blow, but it had made her shut down and capitulate and run away, so she was certain that Rossi considered it a victory in his book.

She heard someone else enter the break room, and her skin did that weird tingling thing that always seemed to happen when Rossi was around (she had decided that it was her animal instinct, her flight-or-fight reflex gearing up for confrontation, as if her body had known from day one that this man was going to be her enemy).

Enemy. She'd never even really thought of him as such until now. But what else did you call someone who hated you? And he had to hate her—why else would he be so unnecessarily harsh, so calculatingly cruel, so  _determined_  to wound her?

Strauss' back was turned to him, but David could tell that she was aware of his presence, due to the strained and rigid lines of her body.

Erin simply waited for him to speak. Whatever happened, whatever he said, she would not give this man any reaction, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of upsetting her further.

"I'm sorry," he said simply, and his words surprised her (because she had been so certain that he was coming to gloat, to continue their fight, to push and prod and goad her, as usual).

Unfortunately for David Rossi, Erin Strauss was not ready to make nice. She knew that he was only apologizing because she'd been weak, because her weakness had made him look like a bully (which he was, but still). So instead, she flatly asked, "For what, exactly?"

"Excuse me?"

She turned to face him, her expression blank and unaffected as she repeated, "What exactly are you sorry for?"

He could already hear it in her tone—the impending battle already building, like the distant rumble of thunder. Still, it was just passive-aggressive enough for David to be unable to call it out. So, he simply stomached his wormwood, "I'm sorry for upsetting you."

"Interesting apology," Strauss commented, looking down at her coffee mug, swishing around its contents with an air of boredom. Then her green eyes snapped up to his brown ones, "You're not sorry that you said it. You're just sorry that it upset me. You're sorry that by upsetting me, you upset the others. So maybe I'm not the one who deserves an apology."

"You do deserve an apology," David returned, feeling his blood pressure already rising at her accusations.

"No, I don't," she countered coolly, taking another step towards him. "You're not apologizing for your actions, you're apologizing for my reaction. There's a difference."

He fought down the urge to reach over and strangle the blonde (her neck was so thin, he could probably easily snap it in a single take, no problem, and then all would be well again), though his anger was only increased by the silent realization that she actually had a point.

"Dammit to hell, Strauss, why can't you be like a normal human being and just accept the apology?"

He saw her fingers tighten around the mug, taunt and curved like talons, and he could tell that she was fighting down the urge to throw the rest of her coffee in his face ( _so Erin likes to throw things when she gets mad_ —he didn't know why, but that amused him, probably because she always seemed so self-contained and perfectly in-place, and it was funny realizing that Miss Socialite was capable of throwing a tantrum).

Of course, the fact that he was smiling certainly didn't help the situation.

"I'm glad you find this amusing," she commented, though her tone belied her words.

"Not in the way that you think I do," he assured her.

"I see." Her grip on the coffee mug further tightened, and he wondered if she would shatter it with her mere fingers. "I suppose I can't  _imagine_  the true meaning behind your smile, being the stupid little  _kitten_  that I am."

Oh, hell. Here they went again.

"That's not what I meant," he rolled his eyes.

"Of course it isn't," she spoke quickly, her tone implying the opposite.

"Sweet Jesus in short-pants, Strauss, I'm trying—"

"No, you're not—"

"—to apologize—"

"You're not sorry! You're sorry that you said something that made you look bad in front of the other guys. You're sorry that you got called out for being a—"

"Don't you even go there, Erin Strauss, you know—"

"Actually, I don't, Rossi. I don't know anything, remember?"

Dear God, this was why murders happened. He wondered how the woman's poor husband hadn't killed her or filed for divorce yet. Or both.

Erin stared at the man before her, silently wondering how he'd survived this long. Seriously, how hadn't one of his wives simply placed a pillow over his face while he slept? She was close to doing that, and she'd only really known him for less than a week!

He took a deep breath, trying to rein in his anger as he quietly spoke, "You are intentionally misconstruing—"

"Try not to use big words on me, Rossi," she interjected smoothly. Then she cocked her head to one side, eyes wide in faux innocence as she kicked her voice up to a Marilyn-esque pitch, "They might give me a headache."

He fought back another urge to wrap his hands around her neck, "You are blowing things completely out of proportion, as  _usual_ , Agent Strauss—"

"Am I? Am I  _really_?" She didn't seem convinced, turning back to the break room sink and tossing the rest of her coffee down the drain (she couldn't even finish a goddamn cup of coffee in peace). She began rinsing out the mug, her movements quick and agitated, "You came out swinging at me on day  _one_ , for no apparent reason, and for the past six days, you have done nothing but fight me every step of the way. And when I finally push back, suddenly  _I'm_  the one who's overreacting?"

He actually couldn't argue with her on that point—he still wasn't sure why he'd started this war between them (some things just happen)—but he'd be damned if he conceded anything to this woman.

So instead, he simply gave a wry smile, "Oh, Strauss. You play the martyr so well."

She turned back to him, her face deadly-pale as her color in her chest and neck rose, "What did you say to me?"

"You heard me," David felt a prick of satisfaction as he threw her own words back at her. "You wouldn't be so defensive if you hadn't."

Now the blush from her neck stained her cheeks, oddly accentuating the bright green orbs burning above them. It actually made her eyes look prettier, though that wasn't a thought that David could entertain for long, because right now, she very well might kill him.

* * *

Dave Wallander glanced at his watch. David Rossi had left in search of Strauss a full five minutes ago, and every second that ticked by only filled Wallander with dread.

"Don't worry," Talladeris seemed to read his mind. "I don't think either one has their gun on them."

"That isn't the only thing that could be used as a weapon," Martin spoke for the first time in a long time, not even looking up from his stack of files. Talladeris let out a huge, booming laugh at the pronouncement.

"I s'pose you're right, Marty." He stood and looked at Wallander again, motioning for the door, "Wanna go make sure they haven't killed each other with pencils and letter openers? Then we'll go grab some lunch."

Wallander gave a curt nod of approval, and Talladeris turned to Martin, "You in?"

"I think I'll stay here," Martin waved away the invitation. "Enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts."

This earned him another laugh from Talladeris, but Wallander was too busy imagining the worst to be amused.

Once the two men entered the hallway, it actually wasn't hard to find Strauss and Rossi. All they had to do was follow the sound of raised voices.

"Well, at least we know they're both alive," Talladeris remarked drolly.

When they entered the break room, they found Strauss and Rossi squared off as usual, Strauss' hands flying up in exasperation (and just  _straining_  against her mind, which was curbing her impulse to let her hands fly to the man's throat).

"Would you stop interrupting me?!"

" _You_  were the one interrupting  _me_ , Agent Strauss—"

"Oh dear gods, are you really—"

"Would you two just  _shut up_?" Wallander finally broke in, rubbing the bridge of his nose in aggravation. Strauss and Rossi stopped, shocked by the fact that they now had an audience (they'd both been so focused on their partner that they hadn't even noticed). "Dear god, the whole Bureau can hear you caterwauling in here."

They suddenly both looked very contrite, though they kept shooting daggers at one another ( _you started it_ ). Talladeris had to turn away to hide his grin, to keep from laughing at how ridiculous the whole thing was.

With a heavy sigh, Dave Wallander shook his head, turning to Talladeris, "C'mon, Tally, let's go get some lunch."

He turned back to Rossi and Strauss, "You two, hash out whatever pointless issue is going on here. When we get back, for the love of all that's good and holy, I want to be able to work for more than ten minutes without erupting into a petty fight. We've got more important things to worry about than you two scoring a few pride points in your little battle of the egos."

Having said his piece, Wallander left the room. Talladeris waited a beat, then followed, giving them both a look of amusement as he walked out, "Other Dave just needs a good nap and some good food. I'll take him to Gray's Papaya and he'll be right as rain in a bit."

There was an awkward beat of silence as Strauss and Rossi simply looked at one another.

"Dave's right," she admitted quietly. "We are being childish."

This would have been the moment for David Rossi to agree, the moment for some kind of momentary truce, but of course, that was not the path he chose.

"I came to you to apologize, like an adult, Agent Strauss. You were the one who turned it into a childish little spat—"

"And you followed right along, Agent Rossi," she stepped up, squaring her shoulders and rising to her full height, her face just inches away from his.

There was a solid, heavy, breath-holding beat as they simply absorbed the odd electric shock of being so physically close to one another, their eyes remaining locked onto each other's with bulldog determination ( _I'll be damned if I look away first, I'll be damned if I break first, I'll be damned if I let you win_ ).

Then the corner of Erin's mouth curled into something between a smirk and a snarl as she gave a light incredulous huff, stepping back and leaving the break room without another backward glance.

David watched her go, unsure of whether he wanted to laugh or to scream. That woman.  _That woman_.

* * *

**June 2013. New York City, New York.**

Yet again, Erin Strauss had pulled a move that wasn't predicted or planned. Except this time, John Curtis was actually happy with her choice.

Erin was back in New York City. For whatever reason, she'd chosen to join the team in the field, and here she was, back where it all began.

Honestly, John couldn't have planned it better, even if he'd tried. It was only further proof of his revenge's worthiness, further incentive to move  _now_ , as opposed to later.

She was here. She knew her place, knew how this would end—perhaps not on a conscious level, but she had to have felt the pull of predestination (why else would she be here?).

John had been studying the last report filed by Strauss—the one on Phillip Connor—and he'd been planning his biggest replication yet. But now that seemed so trivial, compared to the gift he'd been given. He couldn't throw away this chance, simply because it meant changing plans. One always had to be adaptive, ready for anything.

He wasn't fully ready yet, but he would be. He'd installed a remote-access program on the assistant to the director's computer, so that he could see all official and unofficial communications that went through the Bureau. Since Erin Strauss was in the field, she'd been emailing the director daily updates on the current investigation.

Speak of the devil. There was a little  _ding!_  signaling a new email, and John glanced at the clock. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning, but Erin Strauss was right on-schedule—she usually sent her reports between midnight and two am, prompting John to wonder when the woman ever slept (especially because being out in the field meant that she was back in the office by 7am— _tut, tut, Erin, no sleep can be a dangerous thing, it makes you tired and unbalanced, and then you make mistakes, and we all know the kinds of bad things that happen when you make a mistake_ ).

He poured over the details enclosed in her latest email update. This time, he was going to show the BAU just how good he was, just how close he was to their precious inner sanctum—he was going to replicate a case while they were still  _on_  the case.

He glanced over at his latest photographs, freshly developed and dried (it hadn't been easy, finding a space to set up a dark room in the shabby hotel he'd chosen because they took cash, allowing him to remain off the radar). Shots of the team in New York—Aaron Hotchner standing beside the standard-issue black suburban, Alex Blake and Derek Morgan walking into the Federal Plaza building, Spencer Reid standing on a street corner, head ducked down as he tapped away on his phone.

Then, of course, there was his favorite—Erin Strauss, exiting the hotel, flanked by David Rossi and Aaron Hotchner, looking like some modern-day goon squad in their dark suits and sleek shades.

_Oh, Erin. Even surrounded by the best and the brightest, you aren't safe, not from me._

He checked his watch. He needed to get back to Virginia. He had a lovely little cocktail to prepare for a very special lady. Plus a few pieces of evidence to plant. He needed to be back in his own lab, where he had everything necessary to prepare for this blessed event.

Also back home, there was another favorite photo of his. It was a standard black and white shot of Erin as well, but with a more powerful lens, and it was a close-up of her upper body, leaned across a coffee table as she chatted with her AA Sponsor, her fingers absentmindedly twirling through her hair as she listened to whatever the other woman was saying. The picture had a perfect shot of Erin's pale wrist, to which John Curtis had taken a red marker and drawn an infinity symbol.

It fit. John had scoured all of the past case files that he could find, searching for the perfect one, for the best way to exact his final revenge on Erin Strauss. Of course, this current case had fallen into his lap, and he'd known that it was perfect for the recovering alcoholic—he could force her to break her promises again, to make her realize how weak she truly was, to show her just how much more powerful and intelligent he was, and only then would he end her suffering. And then he'd brand her with Phillip Connor's symbol, throwing it down at his final gauntlet to the BAU, his opening salvo in the last battle.

_Just you wait. You ain't seen nothing yet. I'm just getting started, and you'll never stop me. Never ever ever._

* * *

**Two Days Earlier. Quantico, Virginia.**

"David Rossi, if you cannot learn to control yourself, you will be banished from my office."

There was no mistaking the sharp edge in his lover's voice, the thin line of her lips that punctuated her disapproval, and the fact that she was refusing to actually make eye contact with him, but all these things only amused him instead of deterring him.

Erin Strauss was trying to file away the last stack of reports for the evening, and he was trying to get her onto the filing credenza (though in his defense, she'd started it by teasing him about a previous reference to the credenza's height, which was perfect for non-office related activities).

"All work and no play has made you a very unhappy girl," he informed her, taking a certain childish glee at the fact that the skin at the opening of her dress was blushing. Though he loved every shade and nuance of her, Angry Erin was still one of his favorite playmates.

She gave a swift spat at his right hand, which was currently cupping her breast (hitting her own boob in the process, which was slightly painful and not the best idea).

His hands moved away from their intended targets, but he was moving from behind her to beside her, slipping her glasses off her nose and holding them over his head where she couldn't reach.

"David," she growled, still trying to grab her glasses back. Of course, her attempts to retrieve them only brought her whole body against his, and he grinned in response.

"It can wait til tomorrow, bella."

"I don't want to wait until tomorrow—I want to finish this right now." She stopped reaching, simply placing her hands on her hips and fixing him with a Strauss Specialty Death Ray.

"Patience, kitten," he cooed, knowing that he was only adding to her irritation. "Allow for a little foreplay."

She huffed, trying to remain angry, but he could see the smile dancing at the corner of her eyes. He knew that she knew he only made her angry because he found it irresistibly arousing, and he knew that she often embellished her reactions, playing along with his strange little fascination, because she liked being able to ignite the fire in his blood.

"Incorrigible," she pronounced, turning back to her papers, squinting as she tried to read without her glasses. He moved behind her again, taking a moment to relish the feel of her hips between his hands before moving them further up and forward, snaking back to her breasts and pulling her fully upright against him again. She tried to snatch her glasses back, but he lifted his right hand over his head once more, and she gave another huff of defeat and frustration.

"I'll give them back in exchange for a kiss," he informed her, and though her back was turned to him, he could feel her rolling her eyes in mock exasperation.

He stepped back, allowing her room to turn around as she shook her head, trying so hard to fight the grin blossoming at the corner of her delicious mouth.

"You do know that in moments like this, you actually make me want to beat you senseless with the nearest available blunt object, don't you?" Despite her violent imagery, her tone was unmistakably soft and filled with adoration as she pulled his mouth into hers, silencing his responding chuckle as her tongue brushed past his teeth with little resistance, pushing her current aggravation and endearment against his own tongue.

Only Erin Strauss could make a possible death threat sound like a come-on. If David were honest, that was probably one of the reasons he loved her so—the woman didn't flinch, didn't mince her words or try to soften the blow. She was a warrior queen, who knew the taste of blood and didn't shy from the sound of battle, and her warlike ways were part of her strange charm.

He let his tongue tell her these things, as his hands respectfully stayed on either side of her face, gently pulling her deeper into his mouth and allowing himself further into hers. He felt the breath leave her lungs, humming into his own in that soft sigh that always filled him with the darkest desire.

Sadly, his warrior queen was also a section chief who truly did need to finish her filing. So he gently took her glasses and placed them back onto her nose, smiling at how adorable they made her look (a word he never in a million years thought he'd use to describe Hard-Ass Strauss).

The crimson flush was back in her cheeks and glowing from the scooped neck of her dress, and she gave an almost-embarrassed grin as she shifted, leaning against the wall as she pulled him back into her by the lapels of his jacket, her mouth returning to his with a soft languor.

"I thought you had filing to do."

"It can wait a few extra minutes," she breathed, fighting back a grin as she added, "Allow for a little foreplay, Agent Rossi."

Her hands were in his hair and she was arching, pressing her hips into his and fighting every single urge in her head that screamed for her to simply hike up her skirt and wrap a leg around the man who had been so cruelly teasing her for the past half-hour.

This time, his hands did not stay on her face, but rather wandered and massaged and sampled the curves and lines still hidden by clothing. His mouth moved further downward to her neck, and she let out a small moan, knowing that they were quickly approaching the point of no return, the holy line of demarcation that should never be crossed at work.

The phone rang, and Erin jumped at the sound, moving to answer it.

"This is Erin Strauss." She was slightly breathless, and she turned back to David with a disapproving look ( _see what you do to me?_ ), which did not have its intended effect, because with her glasses and her now-disheveled clothes and beautifully blushing skin, she looked like a naughty librarian ( _hmmm, something to remember for later…_ ).

She seemed to read her lover's mind, because she blushed an even deeper shade of red, turning away from his dark and hungry eyes so that she could focus on what her caller was saying.

"Yes, yes. I'll be right down….No, I think he's still here, have you tried his office?"

He grinned at how easily she lied, because he knew that the person on the other end of the line was asking about him.

"Huh. Well, if I see him, I'll bring him along….Yes. Thank you, Garcia."

"Lying to your friend Penelope?" He arched his eyebrow in mock disapproval as she hung up the phone.

"She knows I'm lying," Erin returned easily. "It's part of how we work. She pretends not to know and I pretend not to know that she knows. It's a bit of a favor, for all the years I've turned a blind eye to her borderline-infractionary relationship with Agent Morgan."

With quick and practiced hands, she re-righted her hair and wardrobe as she informed him, "Apparently there's a situation in New York—Aaron stumbled onto it, despite the fact that he's supposed to be on vacation. He wants to brief us via video conference in ten minutes. Penelope is heading to the conference room to get set up as we speak."

"Looks like you really aren't going to get any filing done to night," he teased, only gently.

"No, not tonight," she sighed, moving towards the door and slipping her glasses into her pocket. They quietly made their way to the elevators, their footsteps falling into predictable sync, which made David smile softly (it never ceased to amaze him, how easily they just matched, without any conscious effort or thought, just another small affirmation that they were equals and mates, even in the little things). They entered the empty elevator car, his hand rubbing the small of her back in a comforting gesture, because he knew how she hated sudden turns of events like this, especially at the end of an already long and trying day.

"I just want to go home and be with you," she admitted quietly, shifting her body closer to his.

"I know," he answered simply. "Me, too."

"Do you think Aaron will call the team to New York?" The plaintive tone in her voice was unmistakable.

"I think he wouldn't have set up the conference call if it wasn't serious. And if it's serious, he'll want us on the case," David replied, knowing it wasn't the answer that his lover wanted to hear. They had been planning a wonderful weekend just for themselves, wandering the woods surrounding his property and simply relishing some much-needed time alone. The look on her face was actually adorable—she looked like a child who had been denied her favorite sweets. With a tender smile, he leaned over, kissing the top of her forehead as he promised, "I'll make it up to you, kitten."

"I know," she offered a small smile. "You always do."

There was a compliment in those words, he was sure of it. But more importantly, there was understanding and simple acceptance—this was their life, this was the way things had to be, and she didn't whine or pout or accuse him of loving the Bureau more than he loved her (as did his ex-wives). He thought back to his promise from the day before, when he'd said that he would think of a way to get her onto their next case, and his mind was already turning, ready to find any excuse to bring her along.

The elevator doors opened again, and he motioned for her to exit, "Ladies first."

The corner of her mouth quirked into a grin as she replied with the familiar refrain, "Bitches second."

He gave a light chuckle as they entered the bullpen. "Are you ever going to give that up?"

"Are you ever going to stop pretending that you let me go first out of chivalry, when we both know that you just want to check out my ass?"

"Nope." He admitted with a devilish grin. She flashed an equally mischievous smile over her shoulder.

"Then me neither."

* * *

"I'd like the team to join me in New York as soon as possible." Aaron finished his briefing, pronouncing the words that Erin had been dreading.

Erin Strauss gave a sigh that was somewhere between frustration and concern as David promised, "We're on our way, Aaron."

"Thanks," the younger man's face disappeared as he ended the video conference.

Then David turned to his lover as he smoothly asked, "You're coming, aren't you?"

And she just as smoothly replied, "Just as a precaution. This team tends to go rogue when loved ones are involved."

After all, Penelope Garcia was still in the room. They had to at least keep up some pretense of a work-related relationship.

"We'll brief the team first thing tomorrow morning," Erin decided as she rose to her feet, glancing at the watch on her wrist. "For now, I suggest we all go home and get some rest. It's the weekend, which means the clubs will be packed, and there's huge potential victim pool—I have a feeling this is going to be a long case."

David nodded in agreement, standing as well. They both wished Penelope a good night as they left the room. The blonde analyst's big Bambi eyes followed them through the bullpen—they walked at least three feet apart, Strauss slightly ahead of Rossi, somber-faced and completely professional.

_Liars, liars, hearts on fire_. Penelope was pretty sure that Erin's desire to go home had nothing to do with sleeping. She merely shook her head as she gathered her things. Of all the people to try sneaking an illicit relationship past, Penelope Garcia obviously was the worst choice. After all, she'd had years of practice.

* * *

"That was some very smooth maneuvering, Mr. Rossi," Erin commented as the elevator doors closed, insulating them from the rest of the world.

"I have no idea what you mean, Ms. Strauss," he replied easily, not meeting her gaze (that was his tell, because as soon as he looked at her, he would start grinning like a child).

"New York." She stated simply.

"New York." He repeated in a neutral tone. She smirked, and after a beat, he added, "It's lovely, this time of year."

"I don't much care for the city," she admitted. With another knowing grin, she leaned over, ever-so-slightly brushing against him, "Although I do have a few fond memories there."

"What a coincidence," he could no longer hide the grin creeping onto his face. "So do I."

The doors opened and she shot him one last heated look over her shoulder before sauntering off, "Oh, trust me, I know."

* * *

_"The hours I spend with you I look upon as sort of a perfumed garden, a dim twilight, and a fountain singing to it. You and you alone make me feel that I am alive. Other men it is said have seen angels, but I have seen thee and thou art enough."_

_~George Edward Moore._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, my dears, is where I shall leave you to carry on to the last three chapters on your own, because some things don't need to be sullied or weighted down with notes and asides. Let me take this opportunity to say a deeply heartfelt thank you to everyone who has left reviews, followed this story, or added it to their favorites. I honestly had no idea that Dave and Erin were going to take us on such a wild ride, but I hope that my imaginings of these two have told a story that is authentic to the characters originally created and crafted by others, and perhaps better explains the interactions we've seen between them in the past.
> 
> In Meisner class, we work in improvised situations with scene partners, and as you can imagine, anything can happen in such a setting. You may end up crying, you may end up laughing so hard that you cry, you may end up not really feeling anything at all. Such is the way with reading stories, too. But at the end, especially when you've experienced a particularly crazy emotional roller coaster, you turn to your partner with a smile, give them a hug, and say "Thanks for the ride."
> 
> Obviously, I can't smile at you or hug you. But dear reader, dear Straussi, thanks for the ride.


	53. Crossing the Rubicon

_ "Alea iacta est." _

_ ~Julius Caesar. _

* * *

**November 1988. New York City, New York.**

The hotel had a very lovely bar, Erin decided as she sipped her third aqua velva. The colors were dark, sensuous, yet still muted enough to keep the room from feeling too dim or too heavy. The bar was well-lit and well-stocked (the latter being the most important quality, naturally), and the furniture was covered in comfortable, smooth dark leather, which off-set the greens and blues of the neon lights behind the bar, running around the edges of the liquor shelves, amplifying the sparkling jewel tones of various alcohols.

This lovely atmosphere was even more improved by the fact that Erin was gloriously, deliciously, wonderfully alone. The past six days had been absolutely horrendous—she wasn't even supposed to be here, this wasn't her case or her team. She'd been transferred to the D.C. field office earlier that year, had finally left Goodwin and his godforsaken White Collar Division in Philadelphia for Organized Crime with the much calmer and unsexist Rutherford Golden back in the Capitol. She'd immediately fallen into sync with the rest of the OC gang, and finally felt that she was moving ahead in a positive direction, after years of accounting hell in White Collar.

But now here she was in New York City, being loaned out to a joint task force because her research and knowledge of one Jarrod Roche had made her an "easy fit" in the current investigation—she'd followed Roche for years, first through his white collar crimes and public corruption charges (which had allowed her to work with Organized Crime, and eventually led to her transfer), then through his ties to various criminal organizations, and now here, chasing international terrorists. Golden had made a good call by sending her—she truly was the most well-versed when it came to Roche's operating procedures and financial structuring—but he hadn't taken into account how her personality would interact with his old friend David Rossi, and therein lay the problem.

For years, she'd heard of Rossi's charm and suavity—he was the sleepy-eyed Lothario of Quantico, with his Italian phrases and expensive gifts and famed sexual prowess. And the first few times that she'd met him, she had seen where such stories could be true. But the man she'd come to know was nothing like the tales that had been spun around his almost-folkloric persona.

He  _was_  charming. At least until he didn't get his way. Erin was beginning to honestly believe that she was the first person who'd ever simply stood up to him (the man acted as if he'd never had to compromise in his life), because the instant that she'd shown any kind of backbone, their cordial conversation devolved from heated debate to all-out nuclear war. All because she'd  _dared_  to question his methods!

Erin was not a behavioral analyst. She never pretended to be. That was the BAU's turf, so to speak, and it was a land of uncertain meanings and moving shadows—she gladly yielded the field when it came to psychoanalysis. However, she had spent many long hours tracking this guy's financial, social, and organizational connections, and she'd learned what kind of person he was—Jarrod Roche was an investor, he made few connections, but when he did establish a new one, it was a well-grounded, thought-out decision. He didn't act brashly or make hasty judgment calls. Everything he did was like a game of chess—there was an endgame, and he always looked ahead. He carefully considered every enterprise and every person involved before he committed to something. He was methodical and pragmatic, he kept his tracks well-covered, and for that, Erin bore a begrudging sense of respect for the man. Respect was the key—if you didn't respect these people, no matter how dark or dirty or evil they seemed, then you lost focus, you turned it into a vendetta, you took it personally and then you made mistakes.

David Rossi didn't respect the UNSUBs, at least not like he should. But more appalling than his lack of respect for Jarrod Roche was his lack of respect for his fellow agents (perhaps Erin more so than the others, though she could never figure out why). The first day on the case, Erin had offered the data she'd compiled on the man over the past several years, which was merely tossed aside as "unnecessary" simply because it didn't have a psychological aspect—Rossi wouldn't listen to her assertion that a history of Roche's financial decisions would, in fact, provide unique insights into his personality—and Rossi had continued barreling along without so much as a backward glance.

He also wasn't a fan of sharing information, which irked Erin beyond belief, because she had other cases riding on this, and every piece of information was another drop in the bucket, another step closer to closing the books on several players who'd populated the underground stage for far too long. But sharing information would imply that they were a team, and David Rossi was the furthest thing from a team player that Erin Strauss had ever seen.

Despite his lack of basic social skills when it came to working a case, the rest of the joint task force seemed to like him—the only major disputes had happened between Strauss and Rossi, and everyone else simply skirted around them like it never happened. They knew that David Rossi could be abrasive and brash, but they just shrugged and moved on, completely unfazed by his temper or his antisocial ways on the job, because whenever they were off the job, he was warm and friendly and always, always buying rounds of drinks and laughing and telling hilarious stories of his former escapades.

In fact, that was probably what was happening right now, in whatever bar that the rest of the team had decided to invade.

The others had invited her to join them, but she'd politely refused (she always did that, always made herself an outsider, even when people wanted to include her and make her their friend). Quite frankly, she wasn't up to company, to being witty and charming and all the things that were expected of her—she was still smarting from her most recent abrasive run-in with Rossi, and though she didn't think that he'd continue their argument over drinks, she didn't want to take the chance.

So here she was, quietly (almost happily) installed in the corner of the bar, with her aqua velva and her wonderful warm buzz.

Of course, the fates could not allow her such peace and solitude.

David Rossi stumbled happily into the hotel lobby, laughing and joking with Tally and Other Dave. As the others headed back to the elevators, he glanced around, his attention instantly caught by a lovely image—Erin Strauss, at the end of the hotel bar. At least, it would be a lovely image, if she didn't look like someone had killed her pet hamster. Her sadness made her look even younger than her twenty-nine years, her light green eyes and flawless skin and honeyed curls giving her the appearance of a very unhappy porcelain doll.

He felt a pang of guilt at the realization that he was the reason for her melancholia. He'd been too hard on her today—most of the time, he could push her, and she would push back, and it was a fun little game (at least for him, although he suspected that she enjoyed being able to ditch her passive-aggressive ways by being totally brutal towards him). But he'd gone too far, and he'd broken her, in some way. That had never been his intention—true, most of their time together was spent tearing each other apart, but there was an odd sense of camaraderie to the whole affair (she was his sparring partner, and when she was down, then so was he).

Of course, he'd tried to apologize, which had turned into a colossal mistake, because Strauss had still been hurting and she'd lashed out instead (and he actually understood that, when he thought about it). In retrospect, he should have known better than to approach her so soon after he'd wounded her—he should have known that she wouldn't be ready to accept his apology, not after he'd embarrassed her in front of the others, not after he'd made her lose her temper in public (though personally, he didn't see why she was embarrassed, because truly, it wasn't  _that_  bad, and it had been completely warranted, given the circumstances).

She had avoided him for the rest of the day, a bit like a cat who needed to lick her wounds and recover before dealing with him again, and he'd tried to be respectful and give her distance.

But hours had passed, and he still needed to make amends. David Rossi was well-aware of the fact that he had a short-fuse temper and a sharp tongue to match, and he wasn't the best at controlling either—however, to his credit, he always made a point of owning up to his faults, even if it took a while for him to acknowledge them. He knew that he'd inadvertently hurt Erin Strauss much deeper than he'd intended (she had been irritating the hell out of him, but he'd never meant to make her cry, which is what she had almost done, there in the conference room), and he couldn't shake the nagging voice at the corner of his mind which quietly informed him that he would have to make this right.

So he took a deep breath, said a quick (almost sarcastic) prayer of protection, and headed towards her.

He quietly scanned the bar—there were two more people, at a booth in the corner, both so sloppy-drunk that they didn't know the world was turning. Although she didn't look up, she obviously sensed his approach, because he saw her physically flinch, her shoulders rounding inward in a protective gesture, as if she were shielding herself from him.

He didn't like knowing that he had that effect on her. Despite the fact that he often couldn't stand her (or her voice, or her sarcasm, or her need to be right all the time), he didn't ever want to make her feel afraid or trapped or under siege, or any other scary emotion. In some ways, she reminded him of his younger sister—though they fought like cats and dogs, at the end of the day, he'd fight like hell to keep her safe. It was weird, the conflicting emotions that Strauss made bubble up inside of him, though he wasn't exactly sure that he wanted to take the time to try and sort them out.

He easily slipped onto the leather-coated bar stool next to Erin's with a soft, "Hello."

She still didn't look at him as she drained the rest of her drink, setting it back onto the bar. After another beat, she quietly returned, "Hello."

"You want another?" He gave a slight gesture towards her empty glass.

"You buying?"

"I can."

"You should."

There was an implication in her tone ( _you should, because you're the one driving me to drink_ ) that didn't go unnoticed by the older man, and he gave a wry grin. There was the Erin he knew.

Silently, David motioned to the barkeep, indicating that he'd like two more. They didn't speak as the bartender set an aqua velva in front of each person. In unison, they both reached forward, taking their first sip. David winced (never was one for vodka), but Erin didn't seem at all affected (by now, the taste didn't matter so much to her anymore).

"I hate New York," she announced, rather flatly. David didn't respond, so she continued. "I know it's supposed to be the magical city of dreams and everyone just loves it, but I just…I don't get the allure."

Of course she wouldn't. She was too practical to see the romanticism behind it all, too busy seeing the trees instead of the forest. David couldn't stop himself from giving a snide smile, "What, is it too dirty for you? Too many people? Too much traffic and noise?"

He expected her to say something equally snobbish, something disdainful, down the length of her classical nose, the corner of her thin lips curling in distaste (yes, he knew precisely how she created that look of utter disapproval, because over the past week, he'd been on the receiving end of that exact expression many, many times). Instead, she simply gave a slow shake of her head.

"There isn't enough nature," she intoned mournfully, her face set in a serious expression that only a drunk can wear, when he or she has reached the level of contemplative intoxication.

That was not anything close to what David was expecting. "Nature? Really?"

"Nature. Really." She set her drink on the bar with a satisfying thud as she began to quote Emily Dickinson:

"The grass so little has to do, —A sphere of simple green,

With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain,

And stir all day to pretty tunes, The breezes fetch along,

And hold the sunshine in its lap, And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls, And make itself so fine,—

A duchess were too common, For such a noticing."

"Impressive." He meant his words.

"Damn straight," she agreed, taking another sip of her drink.

He grinned at her deadpan expression, "With a face like, you should play poker."

"A completely pointless game," she decreed, setting her glass down again. "You waste the money that you do have on a slim chance that you might make more."

"It's usually worth the risk," he returned easily.

"Very few risks are worth it. That's why they're called risks," she countered.

"You're definitely not a risk taker," he surmised.

"No, I'm not," she sipped her drink. "And despite your obvious disdain for playing it safe, I quite fancy it."

He gave an incredulous grin at her verbiage, "You quite  _fancy_  it? Careful, Agent Strauss, your country club card is showing again."

"I get uppity when I get drunk," she admitted easily. Then she shrugged slightly, "I suppose that means I shouldn't drink."

"No, it just means you should drink with someone who can knock you back down to size."

"Is that why you're here?" She turned to him, truly looking at him for the first time, her eyes searing him with a single glance. "Are you here to pull me down to your level, Agent Rossi?"

Her voice had taken an arched tone, each word enunciated, weighted, clipped and precise, as if to heighten their social differences, as if playing to the blue-blood stereotype in which he'd placed her. There was something beneath her words, an almost double entendre implied in her tone yet not fully expressed, just enough to cause the tiniest of sparks, and both blinked, as if suddenly hit by it.

She sat back, slightly shocked by her reaction to her own query (she wasn't  _that_  drunk, she'd never be that drunk, that far gone to actually contemplate such a thing...and yet...now that the thought was there...it was quickly growing, taking over her vodka-addled brain with little resistance).

David couldn't fight the grin that slipped across his lips at her actions, amused at how easily she became flustered, like a twittering little girl instead of the brass-balled woman that he knew her to be. She was actually charming when she was uncertain, in the way that the fox finds the rabbit endearing.

That's when he noticed that her shirt was opened wider than usual, the vee going further down her chest. She had freckles—light, barely perceptible little things, so indiscernible that he'd never noticed them until now, when he was closer to her than he'd ever been.

Freckles. Such an unbelievably human concept that he actually had a hard time reconciling it with his perception of Erin Strauss (that she would dare let any blemish mar her pristine skin, unthinkable!). Right now, those freckles were quickly disappearing under the light blush that seared across her skin, and that was another thing that he found entrancing.

Despite her poker face, Erin's skin would always be her tell. David stored this away for future reference—he could use it to truly gauge her reactions, her true feelings to anything, regardless of how schooled she kept her stone face.

"Stop staring at me." Even though she'd returned her attention to her drink, she could still feel his dark eyes on her, and it was disconcerting.

"You're an interesting read," he returned simply, shifting to take another sip of his drink.  _Freckles_. He wasn't quite sure why, but he couldn't get over how charming that realization was.

She gave a small snort of derision. Obviously, she disagreed (not surprising, she  _always_  disagreed, regardless of the subject).

"Why are you here?" She asked, not being sober enough to mask her bluntness.

At this question, David paused (because he wasn't entirely sure himself). Then the corner of his mouth quirked into a sardonic smile, "Well, I would say that I came to apologize, but we both know how well that would go over."

She was not amused. He decided that he didn't really give a damn.

Her body language had shifted again, her muscles tightening and tensing as if she was holding back a retort ( _I'm not fighting with you, Rossi, not right now, not again, you can't make me_ ).

David decided to switch gears. "Look, I didn't come over here to reopen the wound."

She didn't turn to look at him, didn't reply, but her eyebrow arched in disbelief as she took another drink.

Jesus, the woman could speak volumes without uttering a word. It was both infuriating and intriguing.

Despite her incredulity, he continued, "I understand that I upset you, and I am sorry for upsetting you. But I need you to understand that I did not mean it in the way that you took it."

"I see," was her only reply, but the coolness was back in her tone.

"I'm not…I'm not trying to lessen the gravity of my actions," he assured her, slightly raising his hands in a helpless gesture, unsure of how to make her understand the truth behind his words. "I know that how I meant it doesn't change how you interpreted it. I just need you to know that it wasn't intentional. I know that I hurt you—"

"You didn't hurt me," she interjected quickly, and he fought down a wave of irritation (because he knew that she was lying, that she was still trying to hide behind bravado, that she was still being prideful instead of simply honest, which was all that he was trying to be to her—honest, open, authentic).

"I didn't?"

"No," she added a little more force than necessary to the word. Still, she didn't look at him, "You just insulted me."

"I've insulted you many times over the past few days. I think this was a bit deeper than that." His mind went back to the flashing-eyed pillar of fury from earlier that day, and he actually wished that version of Erin (which he had since dubbed Very Angry Erin) would reappear—at least her reactions would be authentic, not confined to filters or hidden away beneath layers of false demure shrugs or impassive expressions.

And despite the fact that he knew that he was performing the equivalent of sticking his hand in the tiger's mouth, he leaned forward, his voice dipping lower as he prodded, "I know you better than that, Strauss."

It was presumptuous, making such a statement after working together for a mere six days (and fighting during most of that). However, Erin wasn't really surprised—leave it to David Rossi to assume that she, a mere woman, would be a simple and easy read, something he could effortlessly comprehend and manipulate with his master profiling skills, with his gut and his intuition, with his smug sureness that made her want to bite her tongue until her mouth filled with blood.

She briefly wondered if he was baiting her (why he would do such a thing, she had no idea, other than perhaps it was simply a new game for him, a new way to fuck with her mind and emotions and further prove just how smart and in-control he was). She knew that he was expecting a reaction from her, some kind of angry rebuttal—instead, she decided to turn the tables.

"Do you now?" She leaned towards him, her eyes locking onto his with a daring intensity as she challenged, "Then tell me what I'm thinking right now."

David was taken aback by her abrupt shift in gears, by how she'd went from self-contained, withdrawn anger to a suddenly open, almost-flirting playfulness. Still, he could tell that this was just another façade—he took in the line of her jaw, still taunt from all the things that she was holding back, and the tension in her fingers, still gripping her glass, although the rest of her body was pushed into his personal space, "You wanna choke the life out of me right now."

A smirk graced her thin lips, "Gee, what a master profiler you are."

"But am I wrong?"

There was a beat as she considered the ramifications of her actions, but she'd had enough alcohol to lower her impulse control, so she simply answered, "No. I'd say that's exactly what I feel like doing right now."

"Then why don't you, kitten?" Now it was David's turn to lean in closer, his face just inches from hers as he taunted her. "Why don't you just let go?"

There was a beat as they simply stared at one another, trying to discern the things flitting behind each other's eyes, as he offered his first gauntlet and she considered it. One corner of her mouth curled into the briefest of smirks before she pronounced, "You really want to piss me off again, don't you?"

"If it means that for just once, you'd say what you were actually thinking, then yes," he answered simply.

His reply took her by surprise, and for a moment, she seemed to consider his statement. Then she simply stood, "I'm thinking that I'm not up for another row, Agent Rossi."

She slipped her wallet from her back pocket (he had yet to see her actually carry a purse, and for some reason, that amused him), taking out a few bills and tossing them onto the bar, speaking to the bartender, "I've covering all but the last two."

With a jerk of her chin towards David, she added, "Those will be on Mr. Rossi's tab."

She added one last cutting look into his eyes as she brushed past. David quickly paid out the rest of the tab, rushing to catch up to Strauss, who was heading towards the elevators.

"I would have paid for all your drinks," he informed her, easily falling into step with her quick pace.

"I know," she replied simply, not even bothering to look at him. "But I don't want to be indebted to you for anything, David Rossi. And you can't buy my forgiveness with a shot of vodka."

"I wasn't trying to buy your forgiveness."

"Of course not," her tone was almost patronizing. She reached forward and hit the elevator call button. She turned to look at him over her shoulder, "Because you know me better than that, right?"

"How is it entirely impossible to have a civil conversation with you?" David growled, shaking his head in exasperation.

"Other people don't have any problem with me," she gave a slight shrug.

"I find that hard to believe."

"Luckily for us, the world does not hinge on your belief or lack thereof."

He gave a slightly incredulous chuckle at her biting words, "Well, I guess I should be glad that you're speaking your mind."

"Trust me, you have no idea all the things I'm holding back."

"Then why don't you enlighten me?" He challenged.

She gave an amused quirk of her eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest, "Why? So that you can get angry—really, truly angry? So that you can feel justified in your previous actions? I'm better than that."

She didn't say the rest of that sentiment ( _I'm better than you_ ). She didn't have to. She knew the arrow hit its mark, because David Rossi became very, very still.

And yet, she wasn't finished. Not by a long shot.

"You see, Agent Rossi," she stepped forward, her voice taking on her snobbish, patronizing tone that she'd perfected for her role as shining socialite, further accenting their differences. "Along with my country club membership, I also received a set of manners and decorum. As well as a sense of self-respect that would never allow me to  _stoop_  to your level."

Erin Strauss knew nothing about David Rossi's life, about his past or his emotional triggers, and yet, she still knew exactly where to throw her volley, exactly which buttons to push without even knowing what the buttons really were.

She saw his jaw tighten, saw the strange flash behind his dark eyes, surprising her with their sudden intensity—she realized that her blow had struck deeper than she'd planned, and yet, she felt no remorse ( _there, now you know how it feels, now we are even, now I have hurt you as much as you have hurt me, an eye for an eye_ ).

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" His voice was low, dipping into a deathly-still register that she'd never heard from him before. Erin found herself actually intrigued by this new side of Rossi, intrigued because, even after all of her fights with Paul over children and careers, she'd never made anyone this darkly angry. It felt good, not being the girl who played nicely, who followed the rules and ducked her head and bit her tongue and apologized, even when it wasn't her fault. It felt  _empowering_.

The elevator doors opened and she didn't respond, instead simply stepping inside. He hit the button for the eighth floor and they both stood in silence.

She should have left things alone. She should have acknowledged the hurt and anger radiating off him in waves, and she should have let him be.

She should have. She didn't.

"I'm not sure what you mean by that," she prompted.

"I think you know exactly what I mean," he returned, his tone filling with irritation.

"Perhaps," she replied. A beat passed, and then she added, "Or perhaps I'm just a stupid little woman who couldn't possibly—"

"Why can't you just let that go?" His voice rose in exasperation, in pure indignation at this woman who was so hell-bent on goading him, on bleeding him to death, one pin-prick at a time.

"Because you don't learn, David—you don't and you never do—"

"And so, what? You're going to teach me a lesson?"

"Someone has to."

There was such simple confidence in her statement, such arrogance that he had to laugh to keep from shrieking.

"And you obviously are the best candidate for that job," his tone filled with sarcasm. "Since you obviously know me so well."

"I do," she retorted simply, taking a step closer to him. "I may not be a master profiler, some great reader of human behavior, but I understand you."

She moved even closer, rising on her tiptoes to almost-whisper over his shoulder, "I hate to break it to you, Dave-O, but you aren't nearly as special and complex as you like to think that you are. In fact, you're a pretty easy read—just a common, unremarkable—"

She was hitting every emotional button—and to make it worse, he knew that she was doing it on purpose. His original fault against her had been an accident, certainly not an intentional triggering of psychological landmines, and her first push had been as well, but this…this was spiteful, manipulative, unwarranted.

And she was still hovering over his shoulder, a smug smile on her cruel lips as she waited for his reaction.

He had the sudden urge to slap that disgustingly victorious look right off her face. And he almost did—turning quickly towards her, hand upraised, but he pulled back, merely clenching his fist in impotent anger as he fought back his own impulses (suddenly realizing just how much smaller she was, surprised at how she could call out these violent emotions with a few simple words, fearing his own depth at the reaction he'd given).

Her eyes widened at the movement, then a strange spark flashed across those big green orbs as she declared, "Why, David Rossi, you want to hit me right now, don't you?"

If she was afraid, then she did a damn fine job of hiding it, because instead of moving away, she was leaning forward ever-so-slightly, her voice taunting, "Then why don't you, Dave-O? Why don't you just let go?"

She was throwing his own words back at him, her mouth opened, waiting for his next reply, the corner of her lips quivering into the briefest flashes of fear and adrenaline. No man had every raised a hand to her, and her body went into overdrive, blood pumping double-time as she prepared for whatever came next.

So David hit her.

But not with his hand.

Instead, his hand went behind her head, pulling her infuriating mouth to his, as his other hand went to the small of her back, pushing her hips into him with a jolt that popped like a bursting light bulb, shocking them both at the electric chain reaction that occurred from the simple pressure of their bodies against one another. She gasped in surprise and he took the opportunity to forage into her mouth with his tongue, surprised by the oddly-sweet taste, despite the bitterness of the alcohol on both of their lips, surprised by the way her tongue seemed to welcome him, curving around his own as she melted against his mouth with an unexpected warmth.

He suddenly returned to his senses, and moved to pull away (had he seriously just assaulted her, in an elevator?), but he realized that he couldn't quite disengage, because she was mimicking his embrace—her left hand was at the back of his neck, pulling him further into her mouth, and her right hand was on his back, fingers pressing into his flesh as if she were holding on for dear life.

He was kissing Erin Strauss. And she was kissing him back.

Holy hell.

Erin had to pull away for air, and she was struck by reality. David Rossi's tongue had just been halfway down her throat (a very talented tongue, she tried not to imagine all the other lovely things that he could do with that thing, tried and failed miserably), and she had encouraged him, had pulled him closer, as if she had  _wanted_  him.

Dear gods, she must have had way more alcohol than she'd realized.

"Forgive me," he said simply, moving away from her, and she already ached at the loss of heat. His words were truthful, almost ashamed, and she knew that he truly was a good man (though she'd never admit it, not aloud, perhaps not even to herself).

"It's...um...it's OK," she returned shakily, unsure of what else to say, and certain that she couldn't say what she wanted to say ( _it's more than OK, in fact I wouldn't mind if you came over here and tried that again_ ).

She should have left it at that. Of course, she didn't.

"So, I suppose that's what you meant by pulling me back down to your level," she stated casually, glancing up at the ceiling. She meant it as a joke, a way to ease the awkwardness building in the little cramped elevator, but of course ( _of course_ ), Rossi chose to see it as a barb rather than a quip.

"I wasn't the only one doing the pulling," he informed her quietly, not even looking at her. "Or did I just imagine the part where your arms were wrapped around me and your tongue was in my mouth?"

Gods, his voice was so even, so neutral, and yet the images and sensations created by them sent a flush of warmth through Erin's skin.

"And what if I was?" Her question was weighted, filled with held breath and anxious expectancy—he had thought that she would argue, that she would deny it, and yet she hadn't.

He turned slowly back to her, his dark eyes latching onto her light ones as another strange wave passed between them.

"And what if you were?" He repeated, trying to comprehend the meaning of those five simple words ( _what if you were pulling into me, what if you were returning my fire, what does it mean, what then, just what are you confessing to?_ ).

She didn't move a single muscle, as she quietly asked again, "What if I was?"

_What if I wanted you to pull me to your level, what if I wanted you, what if I was pulling you further down, too, into something darker than a mere kiss?_

The elevator doors opened, and the question remained unanswered. There was an awkward moment as they tried to shift past one another, walking down the hall towards their respective rooms.

The open corridor seemed to take away the stuffy, heady feeling of the elevator, and it helped clear their minds.

"That was...weird," David felt the need to say something, anything.

"Yeah," Erin agreed. "Weird."

"It wasn't a big thing."

"It doesn't have to be." Her slight re-arranging of his statement revealed a tiny truth—it  _was_  a big thing, it was a monumental thing, a strange thing, and yet, they could choose to ignore it, to brush it aside and minimalize it, if that was what they wanted.

"Right," he gave a small nod. He stopped at his door (her room was several doors down), still uncertain of how to disengage from this strange new situation. "Look, Strauss, I just—"

"Ye gods and little fishes, Rossi, I know," she rolled her eyes in aggravation, waving away his words before he could even finish (which only aggravated him in turn). "Let's not make it a thing. It happened, whatever, it just—"

Her words were stopped by David Rossi's mouth pressing against her own again with a harsh insistency—but this time, she did not gasp in surprise, or melt into his tongue with her own. She returned his harshness, her tongue expressing the infuriation and exasperation that he would not allow her words to pronounce, her hands involuntarily flying to his face again as she clutched at his neck, his shoulders, anything to give her leverage as she tried to win this new war between them.

He wasn't exactly sure why he'd kissed her the second time (though it was all that he'd been thinking about doing, ever since he'd pulled away the first time), but he knew that if the first were an accident, this one certainly wasn't. It didn't even feel the same—the first time, their bodies had clashed together, and there had been lightning and electricity and strange new sensations, but the second time, their bodies simply gravitated towards one another, and there was an odd sense of relief (as if there had been a long and tiresome journey between their last meeting, as if their bodies had been waiting to reconnect again), something deeper and darker and more ominous, the roar of thunder and waves, less electric and new, but more forceful and constant.

She wasn't even kissing him the same way. In the elevator, she'd been compliant, and now, she was almost feral—his mind flashed back to the image of her from earlier that day, with her flashing eyes and blood-stained cheeks, and he suddenly pictured those features in a different setting, and new bursts of heat and desire shot through his entire being.

David Rossi's hands were on her hips, and she could feel the heat of his palms searing through her blue jeans, deep into her muscles, through loops and curves until it reached the caverns between her thighs, which were already trembling with electric anticipation. He leaned further in, and for the first time, she noticed that he was bigger than she'd realized—he didn't have Wallander's tall, broad shoulders or Talladeris' barrel chest, so he'd always seemed smaller, agile and light, like a cat. But now she felt the width of his shoulders, felt the power behind his hands, the taunt muscles of his chest, and Erin had a hard time refereeing her own hands from exploring all these new discoveries.

"We've gone too far," she tore her lips away from his, stating the blatantly obvious.

"Too far to turn back?" This was a question, an invitation, an I-won't-push-you-unless-you-want-to-be-pushed.

"We should—we should just let this purge itself?" Again, she was speaking in code, in questions, too—another invitation, an I-want-to-be-pushed-but-I-won't-push-you-to-push-m e.

"Agreed," he said curtly, opening the door to his room (had they really been making out in the hallway, completely oblivious to anything and anyone else?).

"Agreed," she seconded, following him inside. He pulled her closer again, and she added, "It doesn't have to be a big thing."

"One and done."

"Agreed."

"Agreed."

"Not a big thing at all."

"Strauss?"

"Yes?"

"Stop talking." He captured her mouth with his own again. She hummed in agreement, and it was the most erotic sound he'd ever experienced—a simple thing that slowly devolved and melted, pushing from her tongue to his, past his lungs, all the way to the soles of his feet, sending off alarms in every nerve ending in-between. It was a siren call to every impulse within his being, and he abandoned thought and simply let his instincts take over.

His hands slipped down her body, grabbing her ass and pulling her body back into his with a rough jerk. She gave a gasp that devolved into a moan, fingers scrabbling against the front of his shirt as she pulled his mouth further into hers, knees sinking slightly as she pressed against his hands, encouraging him to continue.

The sensation of her body jolting back into his sent a shot of need straight through Erin Strauss (yes,  _need_ , yes, she  _needed_  to feel his hips moving between her thighs, she needed to know what it felt like to have him inside of her, needed more of his mouth and the taste of his tongue and the sharp edges of his teeth and the warmth of his skin and irritating pleasure of his hands, needed, needed, needed). She fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, tearing her lips away from him to concentrate on her task, surprised to hear the sound of her own panting (what was the frenzied aching that he inspired in her, how could a mere kiss, a mere touch reduce her to this mindless thing?).

David helped her, his hands less shaky than her own, and the instant that she saw the first glimpse of his chest, she parted the unbuttoned fabric to bring her mouth to his skin.

 _Warm_. That was her first response. Of course, it was natural and human that his skin would be warm, but for some reason, it still seemed odd—intoxicating, but odd. She sampled this warmth, this taste of his flesh, and it only furthered the need pulsing through her (she needed to feel all of his skin, all of his warmth, without any other barrier between his body and her own, oh, she needed it more than she could ever truly explain or even understand).

Erin's head was bowed to his chest, and David realized how feminine she actually was in that moment—she'd always been attractive, but she'd also been a thing of clean lines and tomboy looks, an agent of no-nonsense and practicality, somehow bigger than her own body. But now, he truly noticed how much shorter she was, how thin the line of her shoulders was, how her body actually curved under her loose clothing, how her hair smelled light and wonderful, how entrancingly her skin blushed. He kept one hand firmly on her ass as the other went back to her hair, drawing her closer so that he could bury his nose in her now-disarrayed tresses. Then his fingers were truly intertwining in the tight bundle of curls, tilting her head so that his mouth could move downward, ghosting over the shell of her ear, landing firmly on the pulse point of her neck, which he gently nipped and sucked.

Her own movements stopped at the wet, hot contact of his mouth on her neck, and her own warm breath washed over his chest as she gave a shuddering sigh. His other hand slipped further down, deeper into the vee between her legs, fingers pressing and seeking along the seam of her jeans, using the rough denim to increase the tight pressure already building around her pulsing apex.

Dear gods, he was using her own clothing against her. Well, two could play that game. He was the perfect height—she could feel his hardness through his pants, pressing into the soft flesh of her lower abdomen, just above her belt buckle. So she pushed her hips further in, rolling onto the balls of her feet, letting the hard edges of her buckle press and stroke against his cock, which was still much too far away, still separated with too many layers of fabric.

He gave a soft moan at her actions, and she chuckled smugly, her smiling mouth returning to his neck, mimicking his mouth's current movements against her own neck.

David's hands were moving again, pulling at the bottom of her shirt, unbuttoning a few more buttons before simply pulling it over her head. She obliged, lifting her arms up so that he could easy divest her of the shirt, eyes wide as she simply waited for his reaction.

Erin Strauss was pretty sure that David Rossi's only preference was anything that fit under the category of  _woman_ , but for some reason, she always imagined that he was particularly interested in curvy burlesque types—women with big doe eyes and hour-glass figures and red lips and dark hair, all the things that she wasn't and didn't have. She was a freckled, plain-jane strawberry blonde with barely-b cups and absolutely no feminine charms (usually, that last part was something that she generally prided herself on, because she was an enlightened feminist who didn't need to feel pretty, not when she could feel smart and capable, but right now, she found herself wishing she could be all the things that she normally wasn't, just to inspire a desirous reaction in this man before her—and she slightly hated herself for such weakness, and hated him for creating it).

However, David Rossi did not seem fazed by her shortcomings. In fact, the look he gave her sent another wave of heat over her entire body—he looked as if he wanted to devour her whole, as if he couldn't have wanted anything or anyone more than her right now.

That was her last moment of hesitation. In the back of her mind, Erin Strauss had held onto a strange fear that perhaps Rossi was playing a horrible, cruel trick on her—getting her to capitulate by agreeing to sleep with him, only to throw her over before anything actually happened, a spiteful, passive-aggressive way of humiliating her by making her forsake her moral high ground, only to be told  _no thanks, kitten, you don't appeal to me in the least_.

The dark lust in his eyes was not pretend. It was not the way a man looked at a woman whom he didn't want. This was real. This was happening.

Again, David was completely enchanted by Erin's freckles—they lightly dappled across her chest, spilling over the curves of her shoulders and down to the tops of her breasts. And now, in the oddly harsh light spilling from the bedside lamps, he could even see the faint marks on her nose as well, fading onto her cheekbones ( _they must only come out in the sun, when she's been tanning, when her skin is warm and flushed and delicious, like it is now_ ). How had he never noticed this?

Of course, there were other things in desperate need of noticing. His hands gently went to the curve of her waist, taking a moment to appreciate her softness, before slipping upwards, feeling her ribcage expand and contract under his fingers as she held her breath, waiting for his next move.

The world suddenly seemed to slow down as David Rossi's dark eyes moved upwards to meet her own. His face filled with a quiet intensity that caught Erin's heart in her throat, slightly frightening her with this change of pace, with this sudden stillness. However, her fear was quickly forgotten as his hands continued upward, his thumbs slipping under the lining of her bra, the warm pads of his fingertips brushing against her nipples with just enough pressure to tighten the coiling feelings in her chest.

His eyes were still locked onto hers, still taking in every nuance, every reaction to each movement of his hands, and she felt utterly vulnerable, as if she were already standing completely naked before him, as if it were more than just physical bareness—as if he were truly seeing her, on a level that removed every filter, every artifice so carefully constructed, every defense that she needed to protect herself.

Erin distracted herself from his penetrating gaze by looking away, by returning her focus to his shirt, which was still only half-unbuttoned (she'd been distracted by his skin, by his taste and his warmth). He continued his movements, though he only used his thumbs and it wasn't nearly enough. Then his hands slipped away, to her back, and for a moment, she thought that he was going to unclasp her bra, but instead, those hands traveled down her spine, resting on her hips as he began to guide her to the edge of the bed.

Oh, so foreplay was over, then. Honestly, Erin was ready for the main event, but she had expected a little more from the legendary David Rossi.

David read Erin's reaction as easily as a billboard, and he smiled to himself ( _oh, kitten, you have no idea_ ). He may be a brash, impulsive, reckless agent, but when it came to sex, he was a man who prided himself on taking his time. Especially when his companion was Erin Strauss—shouldn't he take a page from her own playbook, shouldn't he be passive-aggressive and make her feel the same frustration and impatience and irritation that she'd made him feel for the past six days?

He slipped out of his shirt, easily tossing it across the room, where it landed next to Erin's. She was sitting on the bed, slipping out of her shoes, her eyes now focused on his abdomen. Her hands reached for him, landing on his hips and pulling him towards her, surprising him with how softly her mouth caressed the taunt muscles of his stomach. However, her teeth soon reappeared, lightly grazing his flesh as her hands wandered upwards, seeking out the warmth of his body with a slow reassurance.

And though each movement of her lips was sending another ripple of heat through his body, this was not part of the plan—this was allowing Erin to have what she wanted, and right now, he didn't want to give her that (not yet, not when he could taunt her first). So he pushed her back onto the bed, grinning at the way her hands still reached for him as he leaned over her. He took a moment to simply stare into her eyes, watching them widen with uncertainty as she tried to hold his gaze. He placed his hand on the soft smoothness of her stomach, the heat from his palm seeping through her skin with a heavy weight that stilled the rest of her trembling body. Her hands went to his, lightly holding him there, and she forced herself to keep her eyes locked onto his.

It was in that small moment of capitulation that David Rossi wanted Erin Strauss more than he'd ever wanted another woman—her wide eyes, her quietly heaving chest, her bitten lips and her adorable freckles, her fingers with their slow-burning pressure against his own hand, all waiting for his move, despite the yearning he could feel radiating just beneath her skin.

Erin read his expression, and she flushed in response, biting her lip to keep back a girlish grin (a simple look from a man—gods, why did it have to be  _this_  man in particular?—and she was blushing like a silly schoolgirl).

He leaned forward, his mouth almost touching hers, and she strained to meet his lips, but he moved away, earning him a light sigh of regret from the woman beneath him—a regret that was quickly forgotten when his mouth finally did alight on the skin above her bra, the first slope into the valley between her breasts. It was a simple kiss, a chaste one (or one that would have been chaste, if not for its location), a light brush that only made her crave more. Her hands went to his hair, fingers caressing him, burying in his locks, urging him to continue, to give her more. She could feel him smiling against her skin, and she merely closed her eyes, trying to ignore his smugness and simply focus on the sensations that his smirking mouth were creating across her body.

His mouth traveled further down, to the ribs beneath her bra, to the well-toned stomach (he knew that she liked to run, and it showed, and he grinned at the fact that her running meant that she had stamina—she was certainly going to need it tonight), stopping just above the waistline of her jeans. He slowly unbuckled her belt, unbuttoning and unzipping her pants as he stood straighter, reaching down to push the fabric off her hips, following the bend of her legs over the edge of the bed and all the way to the floor. Then he crouched, nipping the inside of her knee, where he could feel her muscles tensing at the contact.

He rose to his full height again, fully taking in the sight of Erin's pale skin against the dark paisley bed spread, and though she obviously enjoyed the dark look in his eye, she gave a light kick, a silent command to come closer, to return his body back to hers. He was grinning again at her impatience, at his own ability to incite such a reaction in this woman who had verbally threatened his life on more than one occasion, at the gleeful thought that he was just getting started.

He leaned forward again, his hand slipping up the taunt muscle of her thigh, the tips of his fingers brushing under the edge of her panties, simply feeling the hip bone beneath. That obviously was not where she wanted his hand, because she gave a slight huff. He kept his eyes on her face, grinning as he watched her expression change when his fingers shifted further inward, towards a center whose heat he could feel long before he reached it.

He shifted, bringing his face closer to her own, making sure that he would not miss a single detail as the tips of his fingers brushed past the moist curls, watching her expression with fascination as he parted her lips to trace and discover the outlines of her sex, which made her shudder at the contact. Then he took two fingers, slowly entering her core, which made him moan at its beautiful wetness—she gave a moan too, shifting beneath him, pressing against his hand for more. He added a third finger, biting his lip at how she shifted in response, at how tight she was (it was almost too tight—oh, how absolutely perfect it was going to feel, when he was finally inside of her).

It was then, however, that Erin Strauss suddenly chose to be sensible.

"Wait," she raised her head, placing a hand on his shoulder to still him. "What—what about protection?"

Oh, hell. He was a married man; he no longer saw the need to carry condoms with him whenever he went out on a case.

She could read his expression, sitting up and slipping away from his fingers as she hurriedly added, "I...I'm on the pill, but I would...I would feel better if you wore a condom."

"Given my past history?" He guessed. Just as he'd made snarky asides about her pampered country-club ways, she'd made allusions to his legendary inability to keep it in his pants.

She bit her lip in consternation at his words, but she didn't deny it, either. And truth be told, he didn't blame her—they barely knew each other, and what time they had spent together, they'd spent it fighting, so what reason did she have to trust him? Of course, her unease wasn't helped by the HIV-AIDS pandemic that still eddied and swirled around the city—every time they left the office, they were bombarded with signs for free testing, PSAs for protected sex, charity workers handing out condoms and pamphlets to people standing outside clubs and bars.

"What about the bar downstairs?" She spoke again, shifting a little closer to him. He nodded in agreement—nowadays, there were condom dispensers in every public restroom, or even stashes of free ones left by humanitarians trying to combat the spread of deadly diseases. In fact, he'd been in the restroom of the hotel bar, and he remembered that there was such a stash on the marble counters.

"I'll be back," he informed her, rising to his feet to grab his shirt once more.

"I should hope so." Now that he was further away from her, she could think again, and her wit returned. But her snark only added to David's fire and suddenly he was next to her again, leaning over and his hands pulled her face upwards to meet his own, taking her mouth with a sudden ferocity that made her dizzy with lust.

"Hurry back," she whispered, her breath too shaky to be controlled, and David decided that he'd never heard two words more appealing than those uttered from Erin Strauss' lips.

He finished hurriedly buttoning his shirt, taking a moment to glance down the hallway before leaving the room.

Erin already missed his presence with a clawing neediness that actually scared her, but she quietly shook her head, trying to allay her fears and inner turmoil,  _That's just the adrenaline talking, just sex drive and hormones. And frustration—that's why you're really here, isn't it? You think you can just work out all your aggravation and irreconcilable differences with a single fuck, don't you? As if there were enough endorphins in the world to make David Rossi a more bearable human being!_

She grinned at that last thought. He was unbearable. But he certainly wasn't unfuckable.

 _Fine line between lust and hate_.

* * *

David nearly cheered with relief when he entered the men's restroom of the hotel bar—his lust-riddled brain had not been incorrect in remembering the glass bowl of condoms with the "Take One" sign, surrounded by informational pamphlets.

He took more than one. He took more than three. He hoped he had the chance to use every single one tonight.

For whatever ungodly reason, Erin Strauss had slipped under his skin the second that he'd sat down at the conference table six days ago. And tonight, he was going to exorcise that demon—and exercise the woman who possessed it.

Tomorrow morning, everything would be back to normal, the world would be righted and he wouldn't feel this odd pulsing energy, this needy hunger for a woman who on the best of days still made him want to beat his head against a dull wall. But tonight, that hunger and that fire was still there, and tonight, he'd cure it.

* * *

_ "The die is cast." _

_ ~Julius Caesar. _


	54. Shiva and Kali

_"Past the point of no return—the final threshold! The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn...We've passed the point of no return."_

_~Andrew Lloyd Webber._

* * *

**June 2013. New York City, New York.**

_The world is heavy with the hum of cicadas, the occasional odd echo of other night creatures breaking through the constant noise. The only other sound is the swish of Erin's legs through the tall grass—she must be out in the big pasture behind David's house, the one near the pond._

_He is waiting for her. How she knows this, she doesn't know, but she can sense it, can feel it with every fiber of her being._

_He is waiting for her, and she is longing for him. She tries to move faster, but the waves of grass clutch and clasp at her thighs, wrapping around her legs like bed sheets._

_No, no, she must keep going—David is waiting, she must reach him!_

_A baby is crying. A sharp pull in her own stomach makes her stop, makes her listen for the sound again, which suddenly seems too faint, overpowered by the steady trill of the cicadas, which becomes too sharp and painful to her ears._

_The baby, the baby, she must find the baby. David won't be angry if she stops to find the baby. He will hold it and coo to it, and it will only make her love him more (if such a thing is even possible)._

_She stumbles through the thick grass, which is no match for her sheer force of resolve, despite its heavy pull against her legs. The cries get louder and she knows that she is closer, closer to this poor baby left alone in the dark in the wilderness._

_And oh, he is beautiful. Lying in the grass, wrapped in a simple white blanket. He's perfect, Erin can tell that even from a distance. She gingerly lifts him into her arms, and he's as light as a feather. His nose is tiny and perfect, just like his fingernails, and his hair is thick and dark. He stops crying the moment she holds him and Erin knows that he is hers, that he is David's._

_She clasps him to her chest with both arms, shielding him from the dark sheaves of grass, which prick and pluck at her garments, at his blanket, and she pushes through the waves again._

_David will be so pleased. He will love this gift—her heart sings and soars in anticipation of her lover's joy, she can already feel the warmth of his smile as he kisses her skin (_ well done, bella _)._

_She reaches the top of another hill, and though she cannot see him yet, she sees the pond, ink-black with diamond reflections sparkling across its smooth and serene surface—and she knows, she knows that he is waiting, just in the shadows of the tall pines that bleed into the heavens, two shades of darkness melding together, the same way their two bodies mute into one, in their deepest, alivest moments._

_Almost home._

Somewhere, her conscious mind heard the light opening of the hotel room door (her kids always teased her about her super-sonic hearing), and she knew that she was dreaming. Still, she slipped back under the heavy cover of slumber, knowing that it was simply the lover of her dreams, appearing in living flesh to slip into the bed with her, his hands more beautiful and electric than any fathoming of her imagination.

She needed to finish this dream. It would be such a lovely story to tell him, when he woke her again, a sleepy loving thing to murmur into his ear as he traced her form in the darkness, humming in amusement and affirmation at her words. He always asked about her dreams, and always told her his own. Even the bad ones.

Again, her conscious mind recognized the shift of the mattress as he sat next to her.

Her skin wasn't tingling. Why wasn't her skin tingling?

* * *

**Three nights earlier. Rural Virginia.**

David rubbed his eyes sleepily, silently rejoicing at the thought that his brain was finally exhausted enough to go to sleep. He shut the laptop resting on the sprawling oak desk in his study, taking a moment to glance up at his wall.

The photo from Christopher's birthday was there now—Erin had printed and framed it, and he'd found it quietly waiting on his wall earlier that evening (she must have put it up while he was with Thomas Yates, as she quietly worried for him and his heart). She hadn't told him that she had done it, and it had been a tender surprise. She had merely smiled softly whenever he thanked her for it, giving a slight almost-embarrassed shrug that was endearing, her cheeks glowing in a way that made him fall for her all over again—the same smile that she'd worn earlier that morning, when her wake-up call had been his mouth and his hands on her skin, to which she'd warmly opened her legs, her expression filling with a sleepy-demure joy at the familiar feeling of his body sliding against hers, pleased that he'd kept his promise of  _tomorrow_.

With one last smile of his own at the photo, David rose to his feet and made his way back upstairs.

Of course, Erin was already asleep—he was glad for that, because she hadn't slept well over the past week, too full of worry for their son, and it had begun to show in her face, under her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, and he had hated seeing her so drawn. However, right now, she looked perfectly at peace. He grinned at the sight that met his eyes—she was lying on her stomach, sprawled across the center of the bed (she'd gotten too accustomed to sleeping alone over the past two years, and though she always started on her own side of the bed, during the night, she'd unconsciously shift to the center), the sheets and blankets pushed down and twisted around her legs (she'd had a cup of tea before bed, and though it helped her go to sleep, it meant that she'd kick and twitch as she dreamed—despite the fact that it meant he wouldn't rest tonight, he loved knowing all of her quirks, even the annoying ones), her face still turned to the open windows.

He gingerly sat on the edge of the bed, taking a moment to simply observe the slopes and lines of her body—the smooth skin of her shoulder blades, the faint tan lines on her back, the fading red marks on her hips (she'd left marks on him as well, they'd played roughly tonight, both aroused by memories of past escapades as they relished the thought of being in the field together again). If she were to roll over, he would be able to see the tokens left by his mouth under her left breast, on her right hip bone, on her inner thigh (he knew that her mouth had left badges on his chest, and he was pretty sure that her fingernails had etched his back as well).

He reached over, gently trailing his fingers down the curve of her spine, applying just enough pressure to actually feel the soft skin beneath his fingertips. She shifted slightly at his touch, and though she didn't turn to him, her left arm moved, blindly reaching for him, stilling again once she found his kneecap and resting there, silently assuring him that despite her groggy state, she was aware of his presence and returning the affection of his current touches.

He smiled softly at this, slowly drawing circles on the small of her back. She'd left the bedside lamp on for him, and in the warm yellow light, he could see the faded white lines snaking around her hips, remnants of carrying and birthing three children.

Their bodies and their souls had changed so much over the years. He knew that there were so many people who lived their lives like characters in F. Scott Fitzgerald novels, forever looking backwards and pining for yesteryear, but David never felt that way when it came to Erin—regardless of how her flesh morphed and shifted over time, he was forever entranced by every nuance of her, by her scent, her taste, her thoughts, the corner of her mouth, by the depth of the soul within. Before, when there were years between each unveiling, he'd always been in awe of how much had changed, how much had stayed the same, just as she had been fascinated by the changes in his body.

The dancing of his fingers was causing her skin to ripple into gooseflesh, and he felt her grip on his knee tighten as she gave something between a sigh and a hum.

"David Rossi, if you are going to fuck me, hurry up and do it so that I can go back to sleep."

He laughed at this, at how flatly she delivered the line (though he could hear the warmth and amusement just below the surface), at how only Erin Strauss could turn such a tender, sweet moment into a nuisance.

"I can't just caress you, without having to end up between your legs?" He teased, leaning forward so that his hand could slip over the curve of her bare ass, to the warm, still-wet place between her thighs.

"I should hope not," she returned, shifting slightly to allow him better access.

"I think you have a problem," he informed her in a tone of mock seriousness.

"You. You are my problem," she stated. He chuckled at this, and she gave a short hum of amusement as well. He understood the meaning behind her words ( _you, you are the only man who makes me feel this way, who turns me insatiable for every shade, every ounce of you, whom I love with a depth and a fervor that would frighten a sane man_ ) and in truth, he returned every syllable of that sentiment with an equal force of devotion (and she knew this, and knowing that she knew this filled him with a grateful warmth in turn). There was a beat as she simply allowed her body to feel its reaction to his presence, to his touch. Then she quietly spoke again, "Kiss me."

He obliged, his mouth landing on the smooth plane between her shoulder blades. He felt her internal stillness, felt her pushing back some wave of fear or worry, and so he gently asked, "What's bothering you, bella?"

"I don't know. I've just...I've got a dreadful feeling."

He understood—despite her delight at getting to spend more time with him, Erin Strauss hated being in the field (she'd been that way ever since she'd seen Martin's brains blown out just a few feet away from her own face, that horrible day in Philadelphia over twenty years ago), and she especially hated being in the field when it came to serial killers and all the other dark ilk with which the BAU dealt.

And despite knowing that he would suffer for this decision (she'd surely kick like crazy when she went back to sleep), he quietly placed another kiss on the curve of her shoulder blade, informing her, "I'll go make you another cup of tea."

She made a small sound of gratitude. Once he reached the door, she added, "That better not be all that I get from you, David Rossi."

He laughed. That woman.

By the time he came back upstairs, Erin had drifted asleep again. This time, he didn't touch her, for fear of waking her. Instead, he set the tea cup on the nightstand, quietly turning out the light, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before slipping back into bed. Propping his head on his hand, he simply watched her sleep, his eyes traveling from the disheveled nest of blonde curls, all the way down her spine, down to the ass which had been the second thing that he'd noticed and appreciated about her the first time they'd met, twenty-eight years ago (the first thing being her eyes, naturally, because they'd always had the ability to capture him with a single glance).

Twenty-eight years. Of course, that first brief meeting in a loud and crowded bar had been a mere spark, and it had been another three years before it had become a flame—on that strange night in which both had been so naively unaware of just how deep the brand would go, and just how long the fire would last.

He could already feel the heat stirring in his blood as he thought back to the first night that he'd truly discovered the body lying next to his, the night that had changed the foundations of their world, the night that every destructively-passionate impulse was awakened, the first breath into a life-long plunge, the first step on a journey that still hadn't ended.

_Reckless burning_. If David had to give that night and that moment a name, that would be it. The night of reckless burning.

* * *

**November 1988. New York City, New York.**

By the time he returned to the room, David Rossi half-expected Erin Strauss to have returned to her senses and to have decided that this was not a mistake worth making.

However, this thought was quickly dispelled the instant that he opened the door—she was sitting on the edge of the bed, completely devoid of a single stitch of clothing. Of course, he couldn't help but give a slightly-frustrated chuckle at this (because undressing his partner was one of his favorite parts of foreplay, and  _of course_  Erin Strauss would have taken that away from him), but his frustration was immediately forgotten the second she stood, looking at him with a nervous expectation, with eyes that seemed too bright and shining to belong to a drunk woman.

She was perfect. Her breasts were small, but still well-rounded and perky, and though she had a runner's flat stomach and muscled thighs, her hips had a beautiful curve to them that had gone unnoticed under her usual Bureau garb. Every part of her body needed to be tasted and sampled and catalogued, and he was overwhelmed with the decision of where he could even  _begin_  to explore this tantalizing new continent of flesh.

Of course, this delicious vision was interrupted by the voice which had driven him to insanity multiple times over the past week, her tone oddly demanding as she asked, "What took you so long?"

"I was gone for three minutes."

"Eight."

"You counted?" He couldn't decide if he was shocked or amused by her statement. The idea of Erin Strauss counting the minutes, impatient for him, for such dark reasons, was definitely intriguing, and he felt the fire beneath his skin reigniting. He couldn't help but taunt her, "Did you miss me that badly, Strauss?"

Her lips stamped into a thin line of disapproval, but she still reached for him, pulling him towards her with surprising force, "Things will go so much better if you just don't speak, Rossi."

"Agreed," he took her face in his hands and drew her disapproving mouth to his, still surprised at how sweetly and easily her lips melted and opened, melding to his own. She was moaning again, her hands making quick work of the buttons down his shirt, pushing the fabric off his frame once more and pressing into his skin with hungry neediness.

His hands were on her body, pulling her gently into him again, savoring every sensation as her bare skin came into contact with his for the first time. He could feel her nipples hardening against the warm skin of his chest as his hands slipped down the curve of her spine, and he felt her whimpering in relief as he grabbed her uncovered ass, pulling her hips closer to his own. Then she was pushing away again, pushing off his chest and moving her hands to his pants, simply slipping her hand past the waistband of his boxers once she'd unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans.

She'd learned a trick from David already, because her burning green eyes were watching his face as her fingers slowly moved downward, lightly brushing around his already-hard cock before actually taking it in her warm hand. Her eyes widened slightly when she felt the size of him, then she gave a wicked breathless grin ( _this is going to be good_ ).

Her reaction made David grin as well ( _naughty, naughty girl_ ). He kissed her again, and she rose to the balls of her feet, trying to reach as deeply into his mouth as possible. He broke away, his lips continuing down her jaw, back to her neck, back to the place that he'd learned would actually make her weak in the knees. Her grip on his cock tightened, and she was petting him with slow, luxurious strokes, and all he could think of was the tight, hot place between her thighs and how wonderful it would feel around him. As if it possessed a will of its own, his hand slipped past her breast, down the curve of her hips and back to that wet place, his fingertips easily finding the bundle of nerves at her apex, lightly brushing against the bud to test her reaction.

She gasped and rolled forward on the balls of her feet again, her forehead pressing against his shoulder as her open mouth simply breathed against his skin. He mimicked the slow strokes that her own hand was making on his cock, and she was humming in response, her free hand blindly reaching upwards to caress the side of his face, slipping back to the curve of his neck, burying her fingers in his dark locks as her hips moved slightly, wanting to match the rhythm of his touches.

She pulled away suddenly, sitting on the edge of the bed as she reached for him again, "Please."

Oh, the need and the heat and the want and everything-underneath contained in that single word. David Rossi had promised himself that he would tease and taunt Erin Strauss, that he would drive her to the brink of insanity with not-enough touches and light kisses, but oh, God above, when she uttered that simple plea, he felt his resolve crumbling into dust.

"Please," she repeated again breathlessly, her finger easily hooking through his belt loop, pulling him closer, so that he was standing between her legs.

Erin Strauss was begging. Wasn't that what he wanted? The answer was yes,  _mission accomplished_ , and now his own body was begging for the exact same thing. There was nothing left to prove, just bridges to be burned.

And oh, what a sweet burning this would be.

Her hands were on his hips now, those big green eyes looking up at him for confirmation as she began to slowly push his jeans and boxers down his legs. He slipped one of the condoms from his pocket (which earned him a smile), and he couldn't stop his hand from reaching for her face again, his fingers finding their way back into the tangled blonde nest of her curls. She turned slightly at this, letting her head rest in his hand as she pulled his pants further down, finally freeing his cock from its confinement. She opened her mouth, pushing a hot breath against his organ without ever actually letting her lips touch him, and he let out a small groan in response ( _so Erin can play this game, too, the taunting and teasing and titillating_ ).

He stepped back, slipping out of his pants and kicking them aside, too, removing his socks and keeping his dark eyes locked on her with a hunger that made her heart stop (dear gods, only David Rossi could turn taking off his socks into a part of the seduction). And rather than fear that look, she welcomed it, leaning back on her elbows as she shifted her hips wider, her whole body flushing with another wave of heat as she watched his eyes travel further down to her wet and wanting pussy. She simply watched him, taking in the lines of his body, his dark skin and his well-shaped legs, his broad, smooth chest, his easy movements (yes, she had always seen him as a big jungle cat, and now that she could see the ripple and movement of his muscles without the barrier of clothing, she knew that her assessment had been right, and if he was cat, then she certainly wouldn't mind being a kitten). He was moving towards her again, and she prepared for the final plunge, but she was surprised to feel David's hands on her legs, pulling her back to the edge of the bed, slipping further upwards, under her arms, pulling her back to her feet with a rough jerk. Her body collided with his once more, for the first time without anything between them, and she gasped at the sparks that flew across her skin at the contact. His tongue was slipping past her teeth again, his own breath as jagged and needy as hers, his own hands shaking as he clutched at the curves of her body again.

She understood his message—things were about to get much more aggressive, so this was last-call for caresses and tenderness. She seconded the motion, pulling his neck back to her mouth as she pressed against his erection, her stomach tightening at the contact, her core responding with another rush of wet heat as it anticipated his arrival, her hands roving the expanse of his back, fingers pressing into his flesh, pulling him closer, taking in as much of him as she could.

The room spun madly as he quickly turned her around, pulling her back against him as his hands finally grasped her breasts, kneading them as his mouth returned to the curve of her shoulder. She leaned back into his chest, hands moving upwards to caress his head, her hips pushing backwards, seeking him out, encouraging him.

Erin Strauss was keening, a low, constant pitch rumbling from the depths of her chest, and David realized that she wasn't even conscious of the fact that she was making this noise (which arguably had to be the most amazing thing that he'd ever heard from this woman). She was completely lost in the moment, in his touch, and dear God, didn't she know that she could rend mountains with that sound, with the simple heat of her breath, the lightest touch of her own electric skin?

David's mouth was on her pulse-point again, and she found herself completely incapable of thought, though the edge of his teeth on her flesh brought her hazed brain back into the moment (though it was so easy to tumble back into that strange little world ruled only by sensation, the world where his hands—wonderful, capable, burning hands—dictated the ebb and flow of the fire coursing in her veins, shifting sparks and attention from one part of her body to another as his mouth's endeavors competed against every other part of her, which needed more but already had too much).

_All the stories were true_ , she realized with stunning clarity. The prowess, the passion, the intensity, every piece of water-cooler gossip that she'd heard about this man.  _All the stories were true, but none of them even scratched the surface_.

Speaking of things that needed scratching—her current position did not allow her to really return his caresses (she could feel him, but she couldn't touch him, not in the way she wanted), and she'd been foreplayed to a frazzle, so she let him know this, pressing against him, letting her hands reach behind her to his hips, giving a slight moan of impatience ( _can't you see that I need more?_ ).

He was grinning at this (she could feel his smug smile, even though she couldn't see it), and she gave another frustrated growl, her hands moving back to his head, grabbing his hair roughly and giving it a jerk ( _this is not humorous, David Rossi_ ).

There she was, the feral creature from the hallway, the biting thing from the bar, the sharp-edged and irritating spirit who'd slipped under his skin. That was the one for whom he'd been waiting—because more than anything, for whatever sado-masochisitc reason, that was the one he wanted to take to bed.

He pushed her forward, and she caught herself, hands splayed across the bed—he placed his hand on the small of her back, silently telling her to stay in that position. Erin braced her knees against the edge of the mattress, inwardly rejoicing as she felt him moving behind her, heard him taking the condom from its wrapper (finally, finally,  _finally_ ). His hands were on her hips and he was slowly pushing into her, giving her time to adjust to his size. David could feel her walls already trembling against him, and he released a heavy sigh of relief (finally, finally,  _finally_ ).

He started moving, and she made a small noise. He stopped, "Y'okay?"

She gave a breathless, frustrated chuckle, "Holy fuck, David, if there's a problem, I'll let you know, but please don't stop."

He laughed at this—it was so perfectly Strauss, to be irritated when he was only concerned for her, and yet it only deepened the desire behind his thrusts, adding to his own satisfaction when he heard her panting and gasping again.

Her first orgasm came quickly, taking her by surprise, but David never slowed down, and she found that it hadn't been enough, because she was still moving with him, still wanting more from him. David was smiling at how easily she came for him (at how she tightened even more, making each stroke even more enjoyable), and his body was responding to the shock-waves left by hers. His hands increased their grip on her hips as he pushed himself as deeply into the snug, hot channel as he could, moving into shorter thrusts, pushing her back to the edge. He noticed the change in her breathing, the way she was beginning to hold her breath for longer periods of time, and he knew that she was close again (that was her tell, and he was a quick learner, especially when the lesson was as engaging as this).

The waves were building in her body again, and Erin couldn't believe it—she was by no means frigid, but she was never climaxed this easily or this quickly, not without some very intense foreplay, and she'd never been aroused to such a level of burning need. Why did it have to be this way with David Rossi, of all people? What did it mean?

_Don't think. Just do. This is a purge, a cleansing, a draining of all the bad blood. Don't over-analyze it, Erin, don't analyze it at all. Just feel. Just feel. Just…_

David's movements were coming faster now, and she knew that this time, he would come with her. She focused on the sound of his heavy breathing, the weight of his hands, the electricity shooting from her hips every time that he moved inside of her, the tension pooling deep in her stomach, building and receding, quietly warning her of her own impending climax.

David didn't make any noise, really, besides panting. For some reason, she would have pegged him as a screamer—it just seemed to fit with his loud and outgoing personality. But then again, perhaps she should have guessed that he'd be quiet and concentrated—she thought back to the intensity in his dark eyes the first time he'd laid her on the bed, the mesmerizingly erotic power of his expression, and it was that short-term memory that made her feel the first quivers of her second orgasm for the evening. Suddenly, David's grip tightened again, and her own hips jerked with the erratic jolts of his hips as she heard him release a shuddering sigh, and that simple sound was the final straw to tumble her into her own climax, moaning softly at how wonderful the pressure felt, pushing against the fullness that was still inside of her.

He pulled away and she simply flopped forward, sprawling in the center of the bed, not even turning to look at him. She heard him pad into the bathroom, heard the light sound of the used condom falling into the trashcan, and she tried to prepare herself for the fallout—surely this was the moment that he asked her to leave, the moment that his other head took control again and he realized that this had been a mistake, the moment that he took satisfaction in knowing that he'd gotten what he wanted from Erin Strauss, so now he could send her on her merry way.

Wasn't that how things like this were supposed to end? She didn't know; she'd never done this type of thing (what exactly  _was_  this type of thing?). She was not the one-night stand girl, she was too cautious and too well-behaved for that sort of behavior.

David walked back into the bedroom and found himself smiling at the delicious sight before him—Erin Strauss on the bed, face down and spread-eagled, skin bare and glowing with the first sheens of physical exertion.

Jesus. Her ass was even lovelier out of jeans. It fact, it looked utterly biteable. Which was exactly what he did—he sat on the side of the bed, leaning over to bite the rounded edge, making her jump and yip in surprise. She shifted slightly, pushing herself onto her elbows to give him a look of feigned reprimand over her shoulder.

He suddenly realized that even though he was finished for the moment, he certainly wasn't finished with Erin Strauss—she was still much too calm and collected, still too much of her usual self. So he slipped across the bedspread, lying on his side as he pressed the length of his body against hers. She looked at him again, now only slightly over her shoulder since his face was closer, her brows quirking in askance. However her unvoiced question was soon answered as David propped himself up on his left elbow, his right hand sliding over her ass as his fingers easily found her soaked center, entering with little ceremony or warning.

Her head quickly bowed and he felt her muscles contract against his fingers. He kept his gaze on her classical profile as his digits curved, knuckles pressing into the web of nerves on the anterior wall. She released the breath that she'd been holding, giving a light shake of her head ( _I don't think I can do this_ ), and he leaned forward, his mouth landing on the curve of her shoulder, his eyes still fastened to her face, taking in the way the corner of her mouth quivered, the way her eyelids fluttered and her brows knit together, the tightness of her jaw as he continued kneading her with his fingers.

Dear gods, David Rossi was trying to kill her. That was Erin's only explanation—he was going to shatter her completely, because that was what would surely happen if his fingers kept up their ( _wonderful, electric, oh-stop-but-please-don't-stop_ ) work. She was still recovering from the last orgasm, and his fingertips were stroking her walls, his knuckles kneading the opposite side, the holy-grail spot that was already making her wetter, sending more unbearable heat through every inch of her body. Her arms became too weak to support her, so she flopped forward again, grabbing the pillow to muffle the screams that she knew were coming—and as soon as she buried her face in the pillow, she felt David shift again, the warm skin of his chest pressing against her lower back as his tongue and teeth traced the outlines of her shoulder blades. This new position allowed him to put more pressure on his hand, grinding against the nerves, making her jump and moan.

Yes, he was definitely trying to kill her. But oh, what a way to go.

Now  _this_  had been the Erin that he was looking for—she was practically writhing beneath him, keening into the pillow as she panted and cursed (at least he thought she was cursing—he couldn't quite understand her muffled words, but knowing Erin Strauss, she was probably cursing him, even as he filled her body with delight), shuddering and gasping and coming completely undone. He felt her silken walls clenching against his fingers, involuntarily grasping at the source of their current distress, and her entire body was trembling beneath him, her voice reaching a pitch that surprised him (so high and utterly feminine and un-Strauss-like). But he still kept moving, not stopping until her body stilled and quieted, until her muscles melted again in a drowsy-golden languor.

He slowly removed his hand, trailing his fingers up her spine again, writing invisible runes with her own juices across her back. The cooling moisture made her give a small shiver, but she was too spent to really move. He gently rolled her over, and she acquiesced, giving him an odd smile as her eyes met his again. He laid down beside her and she lifted her head, letting his arm settle under the curve of her neck. Their bodies were close enough to feel each other's warmth, but they weren't cuddling or caressing one another.

Obviously, that wasn't something that was done by people in random hotel semi-angry sex hook-ups.

Erin simply stared at the ceiling, listening to her own heartbeat gradually return to its natural pace. His bicep was beneath her head, a warm and sturdy pillow—if she turned her face slightly towards him, she could feel the heat of his body radiating against her cheek, filling her mind with the smell of his cologne and the darker _simply him_  underneath, mixing with the scent of her own arousal in a heady cocktail. Gods, she was already craving him again, could already feel herself warming and re-watering for him, as if her loins were salivating for another taste of David Rossi.

_Purge. We're purging. If I'm still feeling this way, then we've got more work to do, right? Right. Absolutely._

She rolled onto her side—she knew that he wasn't physically ready to go again yet, but until then, she could certainly have a little fun. Also, she'd had the painfully clear realization during David's finger encore that she was being fucked by him—not fucking  _with_  him, but being fucked  _by_  him, and there was a huge difference between the two. Which meant that it was time to even the score.

David's eyes were closed as he simply enjoyed the euphoric feeling coursing through his body, and though he felt Erin shift beside him, he didn't give it much thought—at least until he felt her hot tongue taking luxurious circles around his nipple, moving down the curve of his pectoral muscle as her teeth came out to play again, nipping the skin before salving it with her mouth. He opened his eyes and lifted his head to peer down at her—he was instantly caught by her burning eyes, which stopped every thought in his head and even the beat of his heart with the lust shining in them.

Well. Looked like he  _was_  going to get the chance to use every single condom that he'd grabbed earlier.

He hadn't been sure if Erin would stay, or if she'd roll out of bed, offer a quick smile that didn't reach her eyes, say  _see you tomorrow_ , and waltz out the door. He'd had a few (only a few) one-night stands in his past, between his first divorce and his second marriage, and each one ended differently. He wasn't sure which way this night would end with Erin, and he was quickly learning that Erin Strauss rarely did anything according to his predictions or expectations, so he'd simply tried not to wonder.

Of course, now he had no doubt that she was in it for the long-haul. If she left this bed, it wouldn't be until the wee hours of the morning. He was quite alright with that.

Erin Strauss was taking the time to explore David Rossi's body with her mouth and her hands—there was a scar from a bullet wound, which she gently traced, placing a light, reverent kiss on the spot (and he actually felt an odd sense of adoration towards her for the gesture, because he knew that she understood the wound, understood this token of his sacrifice to Bureau and country, respected it for what it truly meant). Her eyes and hands were traveling further down, to the oddly shaped scar at his ankle (didn't she remember hearing a story of him getting caught in a tangle of barbed wire, while chasing some suspect on a case?). She continued cataloguing the unique markers of his body, and he watched her with mild amusement.

She was actually adorable in the moment, truly curious and uninhibited, more relaxed and unfiltered than he'd ever seen her before. If they had been in a different world, in a different time (and if her usual disposition didn't make him want to strangle her on an hourly basis), she would have made a perfect playmate, David suddenly decided. When it came to sex, she had a looseness, a sense of unreservedness that had been surprising and yet equally welcome. She didn't act shy about his body, or embarrassed to have him see her own, and she didn't seem to have any angsty hang-ups or regrets (though David's mind cautiously reminded him that those worries were always for the morning after, and daylight was still many miles away).

She returned back to center, moving further up the bed to bring her mouth back to his with unexpected tenderness, her chest melting against his as she put all of her thought, all of her need and want, into her kiss. David's hand was in her hair again, awkwardly trying to pull it from its no-nonsense bun, which was now really a nonsense dilapidated thing, already disheveled from the previous forays of his fingers. She sat up, pushing his hand away as she brought her own hands over her head, easily unfastening the pins and clips, letting the long blonde corkscrews fall over her shoulders and down her back again.

This simple act was the final transformation of Erin Strauss. David had never seen her with her hair down, and the curls only accented her feminine features, softening her cheekbones and bringing more attention to the delicate lines of her neck and collar bone, making her seem even younger. Now she was observing his expression with a light, amused smile, and he suddenly realized how she could be thought of as pretty—when she took down the ice queen barricade, she was actually quite human and bearable.

The look in David's eyes was unlike anything she'd ever seen from him—and though she was fairly certain that it was a positive reaction, it still filled her with a strange fear, for some reason. So she decided to take that look away, straddling him as she brought her mouth to his neck, taking a few moments to simply kiss and caress his skin, letting her breath create warm ripples across his flesh again. David's hands were at her breasts, kneading them, sampling them between his fingers, and she let out a light moan at the action. Then she was shifting forward, and he understood the motion, because he was countering her move, his mouth finally coming down to taste the soft flesh of her breast, silently singing at the feeling of her tight nipple brushing against the tip of his tongue.

Yes, she'd predicted well in the elevator, during that first kiss, when she'd decided that David Rossi had a very talented tongue—Erin gave a small smile of self-congratulations at her correct assumption as she leaned further in, pressing her flesh against that warm, wet mouth as her head dipped forward, placing kisses atop that dark head which was so studiously focused on his task.

Then she shifted down again, bringing her face back to the same level as his, gingerly settling her hips onto his abdomen—she watched his expression as he felt the hot moisture of her center absorbing into his skin. She pushed her hips further back and found him already hardening again, and she grinned (of course David was a quick recovery, why wouldn't the Casanova of Quantico be?). She transferred her weight to her knees, sitting back so that she was pressing against his cock, already wetting it with her essence again, then she slowly moved away.

She got off the bed, retrieving his pants from across the room, reaching into the pocket—she pulled out the rest of the condoms, turning back to him with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin as she held them up for inspection.

He expected her to say something caustic ( _presumptuous aren't we, Agent Rossi?_ ), but to his surprise, she merely took one and tossed the others onto the bedside table, decreeing, "Well, thank goodness we won't have to send you downstairs for more."

He grinned at this. "Wouldn't want to waste precious time, would we?"

She gave a nonchalant shrug, "And I think I prefer to keep you out of your clothes for as long as possible."

She straddled him again, keeping her hips just above him, not quite ready to start the next round. She shifted forward slightly, her own hand slipping between her legs—David was watching her in rapt fascination now—her fingers drawing out her wetness, then moving downward to massage his cock, soaking him as she gently brought him back to a full erection. Then she sat back, opening the wrapper, slipping the condom over his red and wanting organ, her eyes straying up to his to watch his reaction (gods, he was always expressive and overly-emotional, and usually, it irked her beyond belief, but now was one of those times when she actually preferred it—she never had to wonder what he was thinking during sex, and that was a welcome relief).

She was smiling smugly at him, and he had to admit—Erin Strauss certainly had some tricks up her sleeve. But David Rossi had at least a decade's worth of carnal knowledge on her, and he couldn't wait to show her just how much she still had to learn.

Perhaps a little demonstration was in order.

She was shifting forward again, her fingers dipping into her core, and this time, he reached out, stopping her hand before it could return to his cock. She gave him a look of mild confusion, but she didn't ask questions—she simply waited for his next move (oh, yes, in a different time and place, she would have been the perfect companion). He drew her hand back up to his mouth, and her eyes widened slightly as her mind quickly comprehended what he was doing.

The first light suckle of David Rossi's warm mouth against her fingertips was enough to make Erin Strauss' knees go weak. Then he brought her fingers further into his mouth, and she felt her lungs stop completely with the electric jolt that he sent from her hand all the way back to the tips of her toes.

The look of shocked arousal on Erin Strauss' face was priceless and beyond description. At this point, normally David would be grinning triumphantly at his obvious win in this little game, but this was not about winning—he was busy seducing her, despite the fact that he'd already had her. Of course, it didn't hurt that the dark taste clinging to her fingers was like a powerful drug cocktail shooting straight into his system, clouding his mind and overpowering every other need or thought.

His tongue was slipping through her fingers, parting them to seek out every drop of her own juices, and Erin shivered at the simple action (yep, that tongue…oh, she had many more tasks for that tongue, before this night was over). Then he pulled her fingers away, which suddenly felt cold in the open air, his hand still gently gripping her wrist as his lips moved down to her open palm. Her fingers reflexively curled around the contour of his face, leaving behind the mixture of their fluids and her heart caught in her throat at the realization that he was sucking at her palm, making sure that he truly consumed every taste of her. Each pulse of his mouth against her flesh sent a corresponding wave through her core, her muscles tightening with heat and need. Then his teeth came out, lightly sinking into the meat at the side of her palm as his dark eyes locked onto her green ones.

She got the message, loud and clear:  _I'd devour you whole, if I could_.

Impulsively, she turned her hand, her wet fingers slipping back into his mouth:  _I'd let you, if you could_.

Then she pulled away, slightly surprised by her own actions (though she shouldn't be surprised at all, he always made her react in ways that astonished herself).

Again, she had the distinct feeling that she'd just been fucked by David Rossi. Though it was a lovely experience, it kept the scales unbalanced, uneven, and she did not enjoy that feeling—she'd meant what she'd said on the way to the elevators earlier this evening ( _I don't want to be indebted to you for anything, David Rossi_ ).

So he thought that he would prove himself the more consummate lover. Well, he might have been her elder by twelve years, but Erin decided that it was time to show him that despite her youth, she still knew a few tricks that perhaps he hadn't seen yet.

She rose up again, using her hand to guide him back inside of her, pressing her lips together to smother the soft moan building in her chest at the way he seemed to stretch her to the limit. Then she composed herself, quietly instructing, "Don't move your hips. And don't try to move mine."

He was obviously intrigued by this request, but he silently obeyed. Then he felt the first light pulse of her inner muscles against his cock, followed by a second, stronger pull.

He'd heard about this, but he'd never been with a woman who could actually do it—at least not one who could for the entire time, until her partner's climax. He saw the victorious smile on Erin's face, and for once, he didn't begrudge her for it—even he could admit and appreciate a well-played move. He'd let her have this round. But there were still plenty of chances to prove his own abilities.  _Just you wait, kitten._

Erin actually felt a giddy rush at the expression on David Rossi's face—she was truly flooring him, and she knew that wasn't something that happened very often, so she took the unspoken compliment. But she pushed aside her sense of elation and focused on the timing and pressure of her muscles (she'd only done this twice before, once as an anniversary gift and once as a birthday request for her husband—she shouldn't be thinking about that, not when David was as deeply inside of her as a man could be—and more than anything, she wanted to do this perfectly, to prove to the dark-haired man beneath her that she was so much more than he ever imagined… _purge, remember?_ ).

_Yes, yes, this is perfect. This is exactly what I need. After this, the weirdness will be gone and I'll go back to happily detesting David Rossi, and vice versa. A strange cure, but a cure nonetheless._

She leaned forward slightly, and David offered his arms for support, which she gladly took, threading her fingers between his. With her arms outstretched and her honeyed curls drifting around her classical features, she looked like a living painting, some Renaissance depiction of an angel (perhaps not a chaste, heavenly creature, but still an angel). He smiled to himself—that anyone, especially him, would ever consider Erin Strauss an angel!

"What are you grinning at, Cheshire Cat?" She was still slightly distracted by her endeavors, which were greatly appreciated.

"You."

He meant every ounce of that simple answer as his eyes returned to her face, smiling softly at how her expression was drawn in concentration as her talented core continued to massage and pulse against him. He found himself wishing, yet again, that they weren't themselves, that they didn't have the lives that they led in the world that they lived in. Maybe then they could follow this rabbit trail and figure out just what this thing was between them.

Sadly, they lived here, now, as themselves, and so tomorrow morning, he knew that he would pack away these memories and whatever emotions and thoughts that they inspired, and put them into a little box in his mind, filing them away, never to be mentioned or remembered again.

_Oh, if only things were different…._

Of course, things  _were_  different, and becoming more different by the minute. Whatever this was, it was changing everything.

* * *

Something wasn't right. Erin blinked groggily, trying to regain her bearings. She was in a hotel bed, but there was someone here with her. Someone's arm wrapped around her. A well-endowed someone.

_David Rossi_. The name was like a lightning bolt to her brain, and suddenly, she remembered every detail from the night before. But they had fallen asleep on opposite sides of the bed, not even touching one another—how on earth had they ended up in their current position, spooning with his arm draped around her waist, her hand in his, their fingers linked together as he rested his head quietly against her shoulder?

She suddenly realized that their left hands were joined—they were both still wearing their wedding rings, and the two bands were pressing together, silently mocking the vows and other people attached to them. She shifted slightly, grimacing at the light protests of her muscles (gods, she'd never gone at it like that, not even on her honeymoon, and that was another betrayal, in and of itself). She could still feel the greasy remnants of their fucking coating her thighs, clinging to her like a traitorous stain.

She was going to be sick.

She slipped out of his grasp, hurrying into the bathroom, retching into the blindingly-white toilet as her headache reminded her that she'd really had too many drinks the night before. She glanced over at the trashcan—also full of reminders of her recent sins (she didn't want to lean over, didn't want to count, didn't want to remember each time that she'd opened her legs so willingly for him, for a man whom she despised, to recall all the times she'd taken him inside of her, knowing that it was merely a physical exorcising of the twisted, hateful thing that had blossomed between them over the past week).

She clutched her forehead, feeling a sense of horror at the thought that she didn't actually regret the previous night—she knew that she should, and she told herself that she did, but really, it was a logical voice telling her these things, not an emotional pull that she truly felt.

_It was a purge. It was just fucking. It's OK. People fuck. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't have to mean anything_.

She nodded in agreement with herself.

When she finally returned to the bedroom, she took a moment to stand over the bed. And despite her previous words on purging and returning to a past status quo of mutually assured destruction, she found herself wanting to slip back under the covers and curl up against the warm sleeping body of David Rossi, whose face was so perfectly peaceful and handsome in the silver lights of the city, which seeped from the cracks beneath the heavy hotel curtains.

She reached forward, lightly pushing a wayward strand of his hair back into place, without even thinking about it.

Then she pulled her hand back quickly, as if she'd been scalded. What the hell was she doing?

The gravity of the situation dropped in her gut like a stone. She had been wrong. This would not fix their problems. This would not be something that could be forgotten or ignored. That was the mistake—not the act itself, but the lies surrounding it, the lies they told one another, to justify their actions.

_This changes things. This changes everything._

* * *

_ "Don't expect me to be sane anymore. Don't let's be sensible. It was a marriage at Louveciennes—you can't dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous...I saw you as the mistress of your home...eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. I can't see how I can go on living away from you—these intermissions are death. How did it seem to you when [your husband] came back? Was I still there? I can't picture you moving about with him as you did with me. Legs closed. Frailty. Sweet, treacherous acquiescence. Bird docility. You became a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old—you are a thousand years old." _

_ ~Henry Miller, in a love letter to Anaïs Nin. _


	55. Epilogue

_"Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light._

_I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."_

_~Sarah Williams._

* * *

As David watched the flames lick across what was left of the Curtis house, he realized that Erin's sobriety chip was cutting into the flesh of his palm, due to his own tight grip around his life-saving charm. He opened his hand, taking a moment to look at the red indention left in his skin (though she would always be much deeper, much more permanent). Then he turned his face to the night sky, to the heavens that she loved so much, his entire being suddenly drained from the relief and sorrow and stress of the past few days. With an air of mournful triumph, his mouth set in a determined line,  _I did it, bella. I kept my promise._

_No_ , he silently corrected himself.  _We did it._

She'd been beside him every step of the way, leaving clues and pieces of information to guide him to this moment. She'd started this war, his shining grey-eyed Athene, and she'd been so careful in her planning—but the trouble with wars is that they always have casualties, and this time, she'd been unable to finish the fight. David had taken up her standard, had kept fighting although his broken heart cried for rest, for solitude, for a chance to mourn. He had kept fighting for her, for their son, for all of them.

His heartache was further intensified by the realization that when it was all finally over and he walked away from the hustle and bustle of the battlefield, it would be lonely and quiet—she would not be there to soothe his wounds, to hold his head in her lap and tenderly kiss away his cares and his fatigue, to make him smile or distract him with their usual sparring of words and wit and fire. Her calming presence would be forever gone from his life, and the reality of that loss was patiently waiting for David, no matter how he'd pushed it away over the past few days. All that remained were a few pictures on his wall, a few items of clothing left behind in his house, and years of memories that would forever remain secrets, one-sided stories that no one else could ever hear or understand.

With one last sad small smile to the Universe (he knew she was still there, somewhere, dancing through the dark trees that swayed and rippled in response to the burning house), he repeated again,  _We did it. We kept our promise, bella. We've won._

And to this day, David Rossi will swear upon a stack of Bibles that one star in particular twinkled in response, the same way the light in her eyes used to glitter and glisten whenever she was pleased or amused at his antics, whenever she was holding a naughty secret or trying so desperately to pretend to still be mad at him, while in truth she was holding back another one of those deep booming laughs that he loved so well. It didn't shine quite as brightly as her truest smile, but perhaps that was because it was tinged with the slightest hint of sorrow.

Reid was passing by, and David stopped him, pointing to the star that had winked at him. "Which star is that?"

Of course, Reid knew the answer, "Alpha Ursae Minoris, more commonly known as Polaris—"

"The North Star," Rossi finished with a slight smile of wonderment as he gently rubbed his thumb across Erin's coin.

It made perfect sense. He'd always thought of her as his true north, his guiding star, the thing that he always gravitated back towards with unerring certainty. And though sometimes he'd forgotten (or tried to forget) that she was nearby, though sometimes he'd simply stopped looking in her direction, she had always been there, quietly waiting, always brilliant and beautiful, a strange collection of fire and ice and sharp edges and soft eyes, always a thing that could dip one finger into the calm waters of his soul and turn it into a raging sea.

Slipping his lover's token in his pocket, he offered one last smile to his star. Then, forcing an air of playfulness that he didn't quite feel at the moment, he gave the burning orb a wink.

And again, if you ask him, he will swear upon all that is good and holy that the star winked back.

* * *

_"I took the stars from my eyes and then I made a map, a_ _nd I knew that somehow I could find my way back...Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too. So I stayed in the darkness with you."_

_~Florence + the Machine._

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason, Criminal Minds canon seems to label Erin Strauss as a "purely administrative" individual. However, research has made me 92% positive that in order to be promoted to Section Chief, she would have to have started out as a Special Agent and moved up through the ranks. Which means at some point, she would have had some kind of field experience (although Aaron mentions several seasons earlier that she doesn't.…perhaps he simply means field experience with the BAU or violent crimes, which means she could totally have experience in other areas, such as white collar, public corruption, etc, etc). So I decided to make Erin an analyst—this would explain her lack of field experience, because analysts are actually "support" positions and usually stay in the office. But analysts are not always agents, so at some point, she would have had to transition from analyst to agent. Just FYI.


End file.
